


Echar Agua Al Mar

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, He's just as stubborn as Imelda, Héctor: Pro at Romancing His Own Wife, I pretend to know more Español than I do, Post-Canon, The Riveras all love their Papá Héctor, Wooing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-15 00:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 106,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13019718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: For Imelda, trying to ignore Héctor is like throwing water into the sea: pointless. It doesn't help that her family likes him, and she's left alone to fend off his odd style of wooing.





	1. Boots for Papá Héctor

            The Rivera family was in distress.

            Before the last Día de Los Muertos, they had been perfectly content with their lives—if being a skeletal soul could be called ‘living’. There was a certain pride in being the best shoemakers in the Land of the Dead; they had worked in death as they had in life: hard. But now production had slacked off; the twins worked yet fulfilled the quota of only one man, Julio made more mistakes in one hour than he had in nearly twenty years, Rosita polished with the speed of a tortoise… even Victoria made simple errors, growing frustrated as she kept having to rethread her needle every few minutes.

            If Mamá Imelda had seen them, she would have gloated that her ban on music was well and just. It was music—or lack of it—that kept the family working at a plodding pace. They’d had a taste of tunes, a bite of the proverbial Eden apple, and now they were tempted for more. They heard rhythm in the steady ringing of the twins’ hammers, in the swish-swish of Victoria’s needle, in the scrubbing noises of Rosita’s polishing. The Rivera harmony, so easy to recognize, to hum along with… if they weren’t in the habit of suppressing those same urges.

            But the family matriarch wasn’t there, hadn’t seen them, and could not scold them from the family living quarters on the second floor. It was early afternoon, so she was in her bedroom, hiding—though no one would have dared suggested such a thing within earshot.

            “She sang herself,” Julio murmured. “She couldn’t blame us now, not when she sang before everyone at the Sunrise Spectacular.” It was a conversation they’d repeated over and over again for three months now.

            “It’s true,” Oscar admitted. “She sang again, so beautifully. But if she heard us….” He was irritated, more with himself than with his _hermana_. He hated working as though he was a newbie to the shoe business. He wanted nothing more than to finish his quota so he could invent new shoes with his twin. But no matter what he tried, he couldn’t stop his foot from tapping along in time with his hammer.

            “Let her hear us,” Victoria huffed as she squinted over her glasses, the needle inches from her eye sockets. “If she hears us, she might come down for a change.”

            “She won’t.” Felipe looked over his shoulder at his great-niece. “Not so early in the afternoon.”

            “ _Entonces,_ why not sing?” Victoria lifted her eyes, pushing her glasses up with her pinky. “If she won’t come down anyway.” The twins shook their heads, and she sighed. “Oh, if Mamá could see us now,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “How she’d laugh at us all _._ ” 

            “He’s coming,” Rosita announced, rising from her seat at the window and laying her unpolished shoe on the table. They all paused in their work, looking towards the clock on the far wall.     

            “Right on schedule,” Julio added. “By the way, what’s today’s excuse?”

            “The store?”

            “No, we used that one yesterday.”

            “A walk?”

            “We used _that_ two days ago.” They stared at each other with growing concern, each wracking their brain for something useful. Finally Rosita shook her head and shrugged at her brother, who blew a breath as he stuck his hands in his pockets.

            “You say something,” Oscar told his brother.

            “No, you say something!” Felipe said, panicking. “I can’t think under pressure.”

            “Neither can I!”

            “ _I’ll_ say something.” Victoria stood as well, brushing the dust and bits of cut thread from her apron. The twins sighed in relief, dropping their hammers simultaneously onto the workbench as everyone in the room turned towards the open door, waiting for their daily visitor.  

A moment later, there was a self-conscious knock at the door as a man stepped just past the threshold. He was still dressed raggedly ( _un espantapájaros_ , Victoria often muttered under her breath), his sleeve barely hanging on by a thread and shoeless as the day he was born, suspenders stretched over his bare ribs. His gold tooth glinted in the afternoon sun as he grinned sheepishly at them all, his hat clutched in nervous hands.

“ _Hola_ , Héctor,” they chanted in unison, the beginning to their new daily routine.

“ _Hola_ , everyone.” The hat brim began its revolution, his fingers anxiously beginning to twist. “I’ve come to… I mean, is Imelda home today?” The twins shared a wince, Rosita’s fingers clacking against her cheekbones as she raised her hands to her face. They all turned to Victoria, the self-appointed bearer of today’s unfortunate answer. She looked around the room, adjusted her glasses, and then scowled.

“This has gone on long enough,” she declared. “Of _course_ she’s here. She’s been here every day these past two months.” She ignored the shocked gasps from her family.

“Yeah, I…uh… I thought that was the case.” He sighed, looking down at his bare feet. “A person can only go to the market so many days in a week.” He looked so pitiable, dashed hopes and guilt, standing in their doorway like a beggar looking for alms. Rosita clucked and guided him to a chair, inviting him in now that Victoria had broken their routine.

He’d given them all a month before showing up out of the blue, hoping to speak to his wife; they’d been under strict orders after day one to not let him in and, even more, to give him some excuse as to why Mamá Imelda wasn’t downstairs with them. She avoided the workshop like the plague every afternoon until he had come and gone away again, leaving her family to scramble and find nearly sixty days worth of excuses to feed him along with sympathetic smiles.

They would have much rather invited him in, treated him as family and marched him up to Imelda’s room, but her role as the family matriarch had overruled any personal attachment to Héctor. Now he found himself in Rosita’s abandoned chair, the family surrounding him and his hat thrown carelessly on the workshop table.

“She, ah, she asked you to cover for her,” he guessed with a sad smile. They nodded, letting Victoria speak for them.

“Yes, but this is getting out of hand.” She wiped her glasses on her apron before placing them back on her skull.

“You kept coming every day, even when you knew she wouldn’t see you?” Oscar asked curiously, running a finger over his thin mustache. Héctor managed another one-sided shrug. “¡ _Qué terco_!” he exclaimed, visibly impressed.

“She’s just as stubborn as you,” Felipe said, leaning against the workbench. “She won’t come down, even if you came every day for a hundred years.”

“Victoria, go up and make her come down,” Julio said suddenly, waving his hand in his daughter’s face. “For your Papá Héctor.”

“No.” This was Héctor, looking up at them standing in a circle around him. He scratched at his beard before offering a much happier grin. “Tell me, how much would I have to pay for a pair of genuine Rivera boots?”

“Eh?!” Rosita shook her head. “What on earth are you talking about?! i _Es gratis; somos familia_!” Oscar and Felipe immediately bent, each taking a foot in their hands and starting to eyeball measure without a word.

“Come now, I’m willing to pay _something_ —”

“No way.” Julio crossed his arms, mustache fluttering. “Rosita is right; family doesn’t pay for shoes. But…” He glanced at Victoria. “What about Mamá Imelda?”

“You leave her to me.” Héctor jerked his foot away from Oscar, “¡ _Oye_! Watch it, that tickles!”

“But—”

“Listen: she’s your mamá… but she’s _my_ Imelda.” His eyes twinkled. “I know how to deal with her. You just leave that to me. I thought that since I’ll be around anyway, I might as well need a proper excuse to come by.” Héctor leaned in, the family following him as if jerked by a string.

 “As far as you’re concerned,” he whispered once they were in a proper huddle, “I’ve given up on Imelda. I’ve accepted that she doesn’t want to see me. And if you _do_ see me with her, just… y’know….” He smiled again, this time slyly. “She _is_ still my wife. Act natural.”

“Natural?” Oscar parroted, only to get an elbow between the ribs from his brother. “Oh! _Natural_!” They all chuckled, save for Victoria’s modest head shake. Héctor nodded and they broke apart.

“So, I’m sure shoes take a while to make, no?” He said in a much louder tone, loud enough that there was no way it couldn’t be heard upstairs. “ _Especially_ custom boots for your Papá Héctor.”

“You’re right, you’re right!” Julio agreed just as loudly, winking at his sister. “Custom boots do take _a very long time_!”

“Oh, yes!” Felipe gushed. “Days!”

“ _Weeks_!” Rosita giggled.

“Then I’ll leave you,” Héctor nearly shouted, taking his hat and flourishing it at them before jamming it on his head, “to your work!” There was a soft sound, almost like the rustling of skirts at the head of a staircase.

“Come back tomorrow for a proper sizing,” Victoria advised, eyeballing the stairs. “That way, we don’t have to second-guess ourselves when we begin.”

“Got it.” He winked once more before turning, offering a little wave. “See you tomorrow.”

“ _Adiós_ , Héctor!” They waved him out, looking at each other before stifling their laughter. If Héctor was volunteering to take the brunt of Imelda’s anger, they were more than willing to sneak around and help him out in any way they could. After all, her mighty arm strength was oftentimes the only thing that kept them in line, and something about his goofy charm made him hard to resist. Maybe _that_ was what she’d meant, when she’d blamed him for Miguel’s naughtiness on Día de Los Muertos; his mischievousness was catching.

“It’s okay, Mamá!” Julio went to the foot of the stairs, calling up to the second story. “He’s gone now.” It wasn’t a full thirty seconds before Mamá Imelda was among them, eyeing them all suspiciously with her usual motherly intuition.

“It certainly took longer than normal to get him to go away…” she trailed off expectantly, waiting for one of them to explain. Without batting an eye, Victoria took over.

“We ran out of excuses and had to think of something.” It was enough of a half-truth that she felt confident, staring directly into her grandmother’s eyes without fear of being found out as a liar. “He stayed because he asked us to make him some boots.”

“Boots?” she repeated, mouth pursing. “What kind of boots?”

“Custom boots,” Rosita explained. “He’s tired of walking about in his bare feet.”

“And you accepted him?” For the first time, Imelda seemed unhappy about a sale. “Why? Now he actually has an excuse to come inside and—you should have turned him away,” she fussed, running a hand over her immaculate hairstyle and patting it nervously.

“It’s our fault,” Oscar said in false repentance, hands clasped before him. “Felipe and I couldn’t turn him down.”

“Sí, we haven’t had a custom order in so long; we got excited, Imelda. We didn’t think.”

“And he _is_ our Papá Héctor,” Rosita pointed out. “We just couldn’t refuse _him_.” Imelda sighed, crossing her arms as she looked out the open door.

“Well…. I can’t blame you,” she finally admitted. “A Rivera has never been able to turn away someone in need of shoes. Even if it is _him_. And it’s only for a few days.” 

 “Maybe a week,” Julio corrected. “Or more. We do have a lot of orders ahead of his.”

“… _Que Dios me ayude_.”

* * *

 

Héctor sat at the edge of Shantytown, kicking his feet off the ledge as he thought. People passed by and shouted their greetings to him, but he was too far in his own mind to pay much attention. His thoughts were focused around one goal: Imelda.

He hadn’t plotted and planned this much since he had first begun courting her; back then, it had been a grand scheme to get her to notice him. He had rejected the help of his best friend—he had been worried that Ernesto might catch her eye before he could. That was good; he hadn’t needed him then, and he _certainly_ didn’t need him now. In fact, most of his ideas for getting back in her good graces were the same as his former tricks of the trade: serenading her by moonlight, offering gifts, winning her with his irresistible charms…. He didn’t have the dimples she’d admired anymore, but he was still _muy guapo_ , if he said so himself.

But would she indulge him?

Probably not at first, he admitted with a frown, staring up at the lights of the city dancing above him. He’d given her a full month, slipping away after the party and biding his time. He knew just how long she could hold a grudge—he was married to her, after all!—and years of bitterness wouldn’t disappear just because they’d had one song together, one small _aventura_ with their living progeny. Before Miguel had come, he’d given up hope of reaching her at all.

But.

“ _That’s for murdering the love of my life_!” The _thwap_ of the huarache against bone rang over and over in his head, a sound of hope. _She called me the love of her life_! Even all these months later, he still couldn’t believe it. _I still have a chance. I’m the love of her life._ It was that mentality that had him coming to the Rivera house every day, standing in the doorway and asking to see her. He knew from first glance that the _family_ was willing, even if the woman was not. He could see the pity in their eyes as they lied to his face, telling him that he’d just missed her, that she’d gone for a walk, or to get more thread, or to deliver an order.   

Imelda was a stubborn woman. But he was a stubborn man. After all, he had gone year after year to the marigold bridge, even though he knew full well that he wouldn’t be able to cross. Compared to that, romancing his own wife would be easy!  He planned it out in his head, night after night of wooing; she’d be begging him to stay within the month.

It was a foolproof plan… as long as she didn’t sic Pepita on him.


	2. The Most Important Thing for a Shoemaker: Reputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor is pretty crazy- but it works in his favor.

            The following morning, the shoemakers were as productive as any Rivera could hope to be. Everyone was diligent—and silent—wrapped up in their own thoughts. Music had been pushed out of their minds, replaced by the excitement of Mamá Imelda’s suitor—or, rather, soon-to-be suitor. For the first time in most of their memories Mamá Imelda had _un pretendiente,_ a gentleman caller.

            “No silly jokes today?” Imelda eyed her oddly stoic brothers as she passed the workbench, carrying a basket of orders to deliver. She stood at the head of the table, her mouth pursed as she eyeballed them. “You’re being very quiet this morning. Is something the matter?” If they’d had flesh, they might have given themselves away with nervous sweat. As it was, they all managed to shake their heads.

“Well…” she stared at them another moment before turning to the door. “I’m going to be gone most of the morning, and perhaps part of the afternoon.”

            “But you’ll miss—” Julio quickly pinched his sister beneath the table. “I-I-I mean, you’ll miss lunch!” she corrected herself quickly.

            “¿ _Y qué_?” Imelda narrowed her eyes, fingers tightening around the handle of the basket. “Is there any reason I should stay?” Rosita opened her mouth, but saw the twins’ heads shaking in the corner of her eye.

            “…No, Mamá.”

            “You can take care of yourselves for one day, can’t you?”

            “Yes, Mamá.” Imelda clicked her tongue in clear disapproval, shaking her head as she left. She practically stomped out of the gate, startling a gentleman walking his poodle _alebrije_. The man shakily tipped his hat to her before peering into their open door, wondering what on earth could have caused a woman to be so angry, and in such a hurry.

            “¡ _Ay_!” Victoria copied her grandmother’s movements down to the head shake. “Did you ever hear such a thing? ‘Perhaps part of the afternoon,’” she grumbled, changing the thread in her needle. “Why lie? Just say “I’ll be out until Héctor leaves”.”

            “ _Mija_ ,” Julio reproached her gently. “That’s not a nice thing to say about your Mamá Imelda.” Victoria eyed him over the tops of her glasses, her expression unrepentant. “Even if it _was_ right,” he added, knowing full well what his daughter was thinking.

            “There’s no harm in seeing him,” Rosita sighed, not fully taking either side.

            “If she sees him, she’ll give in,” Felipe explained. Oscar looked at him in surprise, and then they both began to laugh.

            “I was just thinking the same thing!” He grinned widely at his twin. “Do you remember when—?

            “Oh, yes!” Felipe laughed even harder. “And when—?”

            “How could I forget?! What about the time—” They both dropped their hammers, grabbing for their sides as they bent over in near hysterics.

            “The look on Mamá’s face when she saw the garden!” Oscar hooted.

            “And don’t forget Papá! Remember how he threw the shoehorn and dented the gate?”

            “Oh! Stop, I can’t take it! I’m going to fall apart!”

            “What on earth are you two talking about?” Victoria put down her needle, eyeing the two men in shock. They were nearly on the floor now, crying as they held each other and laughing so hard that they couldn’t get their feet back underneath them. It took a few minutes for them to answer, as they kept falling back into rounds of laughter every time their eyes met.

            “W-when we were young,” Felipe started shakily, wiping at his eye sockets as he climbed to his feet, “Imelda did the same thing she does now when Héctor tried to call on her. She’d find some errand for Mamá, or suddenly have a stomachache, or—”

            “Running off to the market,” Oscar continued, leaning against the workbench for support. “Or to the river. Anything to get away from him. One time, she even climbed out the window when Mamá insisted that he come inside.”

            “The second floor window!”

            “Whatever for?!” Rosita laughed. Oscar and Felipe looked at one another a long moment, nonexistent brows furrowed.

            “We don’t know!” they finally admitted, shrugging. “After all, it was just silly old Héctor.”

            “¡ _Qué payaso_! That’s what she always said when she saw him coming.” Felipe grinned. “He was a little _chistoso_ , eh?”

            “He still is.”

            “Always was.” Felipe rubbed his mustache. “But he finally got to her. He climbed up Mamá’s rose trellis and pecked on the window. Well, he got the wrong window at first, didn’t he?” he snorted.

            “We had to tell him to go two over,” Oscar agreed. “Poor guy.”

            “What happened?”

            “We don’t know,” they said again, less hesitantly this time.           

            “There was a big crash. We looked out the window and Héctor had fallen—”

            “Or Imelda might have pushed him, who knows—”

            “Either way, the trellis was broken in half, and he was hanging by his pants a good, hmm—” Oscar measured with his hand, holding it far above his head to show how far the poor suitor was from freedom. “That’s how Papá found him.”

            “No, it was Mamá who found him.” Felipe corrected. “She had him on the ground by the time Papá came.”

            “I thought Imelda shoved him off the end.”

            “No, that was Mamá, and she’d grabbed his ear so she could beat him with her shoe.”

            “No she didn’t! Mamá told him to run!”

            “ _That_ was Imelda! Remember? She leaned out the window and said “Hey, _payaso_ , you’d better run!”” He mimicked the young Imelda, stretched out over the workbench with his hands cupped around his mouth. “Because Papá had the shoehorn.”

            “Oh, you’re right!” Oscar scratched his skull, upsetting his hat. They looked over, coming out of their memories to see the rest of the family staring at them as if they’d suddenly sprouted two extra heads. “In any case, they were married soon after that.”

            “I wonder if Héctor remembers that the same way we do,” Felipe mused aloud, picking up his hammer after making sure it was indeed _his_. “Imelda was in a lot of trouble, wasn’t she?”

            “I’m surprised Héctor dared to show his face after that,” Victoria muttered. Felipe shook his head.

            “Papá liked him! He just threw the shoehorn because he had to. The neighbors would have talked otherwise.” He laughed again when Victoria could do nothing other than gape. “Well, you know Imelda… do you really think Papá would have chased away the one man brave enough to fall in love with her?”

            “Crazy enough, more like.”

            “ _Un poco loco_.” Oscar made a cuckoo sign, skeleton finger twirling in the air.

            “Well I think it’s nice.” Rosita let out an excited little breath. “Who knew Mamá Imelda had such a romantic husband?” Julio let out a little _humph_ as he went back to carving designs into leather. “It’s a shame that she won’t see him.”

* * *

 

            Lunchtime passed, with no sign of Mamá Imelda. Victoria’s words were coming true, and they all agreed that they wouldn’t see much of her until Héctor had left for the day.

            “Perhaps it’s best,” Julio had said when they cleared the table. “Now we won’t have to make up a lie.”

            Work slowed to a crawl as the noon hour passed, sunlight entering through the western window as it began its afternoon descent. Everyone fell back into silence, on pins and needles as they waited for their ‘customer’ to arrive. It only made it worse that he arrived at the same time each day; if he’d been sporadic, they might have rested easier. But now, they had to wait for the clock. Each tick was like a tiny hammer beating against their skulls as they waited, thinking about their unofficial-yet-official patriarch.

            Oscar and Felipe, being the ones who’d known Héctor as a living man and had been on front row seats for the odd courtship, were also the only ones with memories of the brief marriage that had followed. They liked their _cuñado_ just fine; the married years had been the happy ones, with Héctor’s guitar and Imelda’s singing, and their little _sobrina_ dancing for them all. Music had filled the house from corner to corner, bringing life and happiness to an otherwise subdued existence.

            It had been such a long time ago, but they still remembered the glow that had followed Imelda during those short, wonderful years. She’d radiated with an aura of love and joy, one that seemed to constantly surround her whenever Héctor was home. She’d smiled and, if she’d ever had reason to complain—well, it was far easier to take a scolding from her back then.

            They also remembered that aura fading. Dimming a little more with each day that passed, each month that there was no letter, no visit, no _anything_ , until one day the light was gone from her expression entirely. No one could understand why he would just… go away like that. How could they have all been so fooled by his amicable smiles and beautiful songs?

 Imelda was dry-eyed. She held her grief-stricken daughter, she convinced a widowed shoemaker to teach her the craft, she bargained prices with the grocer and she managed to extend the family credit until they could get some money.

No: a woman like that, in charge of a household, had no tears to waste over a no-good, walk away musician. If there was tearstained leather in the morning’s garbage, if her eyes were bloodshot and mouth trembling, well—Oscar and Felipe pretended not to see. Besides, the walls were thin; pillows and hands were never enough to stifle the sounds of true heartbreak. Their _hermana's_ pride was at stake, and they weren’t going to be the ones to ruin it for her.

When she announced that Riveras were now shoemakers, they remained silent. When she banished music from the household, they weren’t surprised.

Standing side by side at the workbench, the same way they had since the first strike of their hammers against a heel, they eyed each other. They were _gemelos_ —from the womb, they’d been closer than anyone else they knew. They didn’t need lips or skin to read the other’s thoughts; they only needed their eyes. And their eyes told them that they were considering the same thing, even now.

On Día de Los Muertos, when Imelda sang before the crowd, when she ran to embrace Héctor, when she smiled at him and was happy again—in that brief moment, the glow had returned. Not fully but a _spark_ , flint on steel. That spark burned inside her, able to bring back the happiness she’d once felt. But her steel could only spark if struck against Héctor’s flint. They had to be together for it to work; alone, they weren’t worth half as much.

Rosita had seen that spark too. Or, at least, enough of it to realize the stories she’d been told weren’t as honest towards emotion as she’d once thought. She’d heard of the basics from Julio, and then from Coco. They’d never spoken of it in Imelda’s presence, whispering instead from behind their hands whenever Rosita was scolded for singing, or even _humming_ , in the workshop.

Coco had been far more generous to her papá, painting him as a good, gentle man who had gone away and simply never returned. Even as an adult, knowing the ways of adults, she never seemed to consider that the ‘no good musician’ had ever done anything immoral. She admitted that she didn’t know _why_ he’d left, but she always reiterated about how good a papá he had been, and how she remembered his playing, her mother’s singing, and her dancing.

She recalled the time Coco fell and hurt herself, how the _niñas_ had cried, and how Imelda had seemed more panicked than angry when she’d realized the culprit had been _dancing_. Coco had sprained her ankle, nothing too serious, but she still remembered the determined look she’d worn when caressing her crying daughters. Coco never danced again; Imelda breathed easier.

When Héctor was playing the guitar, Imelda had sung a beautiful rendition of _La Llorona_. She’d danced, albeit unwillingly. She hadn’t seemed panicked, only adamant that Ernesto was _not_ going to get her husband’s photo from her. _Perhaps_ , Rosita thought _, if Héctor plays again, Imelda will sing and dance. She seemed **different** when she was singing. Better, somehow. _

Julio had been no less curious than his sister about Imelda’s past, but he’d known from the get-go about the ‘no music’ rule. He’d accepted without too much of a struggle, if only for the love of his beautiful Coco. And his life had been a happy enough one, even without music. His daughters had never wanted what they couldn’t have, not like Miguel. They weren’t quite as headstrong—well, Elena was, but she was headstrong in different ways from his great-grandson.

Julio had first learned of Héctor in the form of a threat, Imelda brandishing a half-finished shoe at him while she laid out exactly what would happen to him if he _dared_ to treat his Coco the way a certain ‘no-good _tonto inútil’_ had treated her. Even if Coco thought her papá was good, he couldn’t think of the man without thinking of uncut leather flopping ominously in his face.

It wasn’t too hard to figure out what had happened (or so he’d thought at the time). It wasn’t unheard of for a man to find himself far away from his family, in a lonely city, in a cold bed, and start to get… urges. And a musician besides? ¡ _Ay_! The women would be all over him!

So when Rosita had come, he’d upheld Mamá Imelda’s rule of no music. It was simple; Mamá had opened her home to him, and so he ought to be grateful. Besides, whoever Coco’s father was, he was long gone and clearly not going to come back. There was no loyalty there. In fact, he’d often thought that the first thing he’d do if he met her papá in the afterlife was hit him… perhaps with a shoe, perhaps with his fists.

But Héctor hadn’t been a cruel, abandoning sort of man at all. He’d had a valid excuse; being dead was enough to make even the most faithful of men unable to return home. And he’d been murdered at that, so of course Imelda had never heard the sad, sad truth. It was the sort of ballad romance Rosita liked to sing about when they were children, long before he’d ever known Coco or her family.

Meeting Héctor had changed his outlook on things, to say the least. No longer was he ready to pick a fight with him—the slippery man would probably just disassemble himself and trip him up—and he was actually starting to take his side over his own mother-in-law’s!

Perhaps it was being in love with Coco, and her still in the Land of the Living, that gave him sympathy for Héctor. He still loved his wife with all the passion of a budding romance, no matter how many years they had been apart. He anxiously waited for the day when she would cross over and they could be together in the Land of the Dead for, hopefully, many years to come.

It was clear that Héctor was still very much enamored with _his_ wife, too. But whereas Coco was Coco, Imelda was… Imelda. He’d never known her when she wasn’t everyone’s boss, whether they were a Rivera or not. But Héctor didn’t seem at all bothered by it, or even all that afraid of her. It _did_ make him wonder if the man wasn’t a little touched. But then again, Imelda was most definitely not his type.

Victoria thought of such things as well, but in a far more practical sense. Mamá Imelda was a fastidious woman, and not one to be swept off her feet. Especially not by an _espantapájaros flaco_ with unpolished bones and overstretched suspenders. She hadn’t seen Héctor as a living man but she couldn’t help but think him _muy feo_ , at least from what she’d seen so far.

 He was uncoordinated, goofy, poorly dressed, one misstep away from being thrown into jail for his various schemes, he frequented Shantytown and the lower reaches of the city, _barefoot_ … and yet? Those same clumsy fingers played the guitar with such magic; and when he smiled at Mamá Imelda, well—perhaps he was not quite so ugly then. And she had really seemed to warm to him, after he’d faced the Final Death, coming back from the brink at the last possible second.

He’d leapt to his feet and belted out a full bellied _grito_ , an elongated “Trrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiii Ayyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”  that had sent shivers up her spine. It was a musician’s cry, through and through; they’d all immediately turned to Mamá Imelda to see her reaction and act accordingly.

Victoria had been surprised at the expression on her grandmother’s face, part old hurt and part fond remembrance, as if the sound had brought back mixed memories. It was certainly _not_ the angry mask the Imelda of her childhood had worn when chasing away mariachi men, a shoe firmly in her grasp as she picked up her skirts and sprinted after the terrified band.

This man, Héctor—he had a power over Mamá that she’d never seen anyone else wield. He had the power to make her love music. With him, she could sing as she threaded her needle, she could even dance if she wanted. He made _Mamá Imelda_ smile and sing too; that was something she hadn’t done before, in Victoria’s memory at least. She hadn’t thought about it, but after hearing that song, she had realized that Mamá Imelda _needed_ to sing. That it fulfilled something she denied herself. That it was important.

If an ugly, skinny scarecrow of a skeleton was the key to make her sing, well… _no hay más remedio_.

“Hello!” They all jumped in place, too lost in their own thoughts to realize that it was time for Héctor’s daily appearance. He stepped into the workshop a little more confidently, only for it to vanish when he looked around the room and found it minus one person. He hid the pain well, though, clearing his throat and looking around at them while he swung his gangly arms to and fro.

“Mamá Imelda really _is_ out today,” Rosita said quickly as she ushered him in, slamming the door shut behind him—a surefire sign that the store was closed for the afternoon. Julio made to open it again, only to pause and change his mind at the last moment. “She went to deliver orders.”

“That sounds familiar,” he mumbled under his breath, but seemed to lighten up all the same. “Oh well _._ ” He shrugged, tossing his hat onto the table like a Frisbee. “That’s life.” Rosita picked up the hat, dusting it off and trying to fix one of the frayed edges before placing it neatly by the door.

““I’m sorry, Héctor,” she said after a moment, turning around and putting a hand to her cheek. “I don’t know _what_ you’re going to do if you can’t see her to talk to her.”

“She’s set on avoiding you,” Felipe added, wagging his hammer in Héctor’s direction.

“And you _know_ how she is.”

“ _Oye, no te preocupes_ ; I told you to leave that to me.” He had that sly look in his eye again. “I have more than enough experience dealing with Imelda.”

“Yes,” Victoria drawled, arching her brows as she looked him over. “We heard all about the shoehorn.”

“The—” After a momentary confusion, he burst into laughter. “Oh right!” He slipped sideways, grabbing onto the wall for support. “Those were the days, all right.” “It wasn’t entirely my fault, though; every time I came by she was gone.” He waved his hands at the workshop. “Nothing changes, no?”

“Only that we have no trellis for you to climb.”

“Oh, don’t worry about _that_.” He took a running start, leaping onto the workbench. Julio barely managed to yank his work out of the way, his stool tipping backwards until Rosita reached across, using his mustache as a handle to grab him and help him regain his balance. “I’m _muy atlético_ , especially since I can’t get hurt.” He did a little dance down the table, leaping over their tools. Victoria grabbed a pair of scissors, standing up in order to better intercept him.

“So we see,” she muttered, snipping at his pants as he passed and expertly cutting some stray threads off the bottom. “It seems to me that you’re a little too energetic; it’s liable to get you into trouble.”

“ _Ay_ , you have no idea, the things I tried in order to cross that bridge.” He reached the end of the table and doubled back, his head twisting around on his spine to look at her. “I’ve become very adept at climbing, far more than I ever was as a living person. Let me tell you about the time I—”

He broke off as the door slammed open, revealing a very irate Mamá Imelda. The family gasped, dropping their tools in shock; Héctor paused, hands reaching up to twist his skull the proper way. His grinned sheepishly, standing in the center of the table with shoe bits scattered all around him. She looked at the scene, mouth open in amazement, and then narrowed in on him like a hawk sizing up prey.

“ _Héctor_.” He looked around at the faces of the family, frozen in expressions of terror, and then back at his wife.

“Imelda!” he greeted, arms open. “I—ah—” He didn’t seem to know whether he should jump down, or stay where there was at least a good length of table between them.

“Mamá Imelda,” Rosita began timidly, unfreezing and rushing to take the basket from her arms. “W-We can explain!”

“Why is the door closed?” She didn’t seem to notice Rosita in the slightest, her arms crossing over her ribcage as she glowered at them all. “I don’t remember the shop being closed today.”

“Well, you see—” Julio waved his hands in circles, trying to think of an excuse. “We were just—”

“They _were_ working.” They all turned back to the man standing on their table; his eyes darted about the shop before landing back on Imelda, his jaw set in a surprisingly determined expression. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, stepping inside and closing the door. Everyone shrank back, the twins nearly sliding beneath the table as they nervously clutched each other’s arm; when _Imelda_ shut the door, it was only because she didn’t want anyone outside to hear what was about to happen.

“ _No me mientas,_ Héctor,” she warned, starting towards him. He took a few steps back, hands going up defensively.

“I’m not!” he assured her quickly. “They were, ah… they were working on my boots!”

“¿ _Me tomas por tonta_?” In one easy movement, her left shoe was off her foot and in her hand. He dismounted the table on the side opposite her, backing away quickly as she stalked towards him. The twins scrambled out of the way, nearly knocking Rosita off her feet as they fled to the landing. Julio hauled his sister to the side as the two began another trek around the table, Victoria freezing in place on her stool and praying that she wasn’t in the direct path of any projectiles.

“What?! Of course not, _mi amada_ ; I’m telling the truth!” He ducked as the shoe was thrown; it missed him by a hair, flying over his head to _bang_ against the far wall, knocking his hat sideways. He looked over his shoulder at it, one eye still watching for any sign of a second attack. The gears turned in his mind and then he smiled fetchingly, leaning his upper weight on his hands as they splayed over the workbench, his spine coming apart and legs sliding under the table to stand before her.

“Listen, _cariñito_.” Imelda made an audible sound of disgust, her eyes locked on his legs as she blindly grabbed for something else on the workbench to hit him with. “I was just showing your lovely family about how much I run and jump around all day,” he explained in a syrupy tone, his legs a visual example as they jumped in place. “All day long I’m moving, up and over and—” He leapfrogged over the workbench, landing expertly on his lower half before grabbing the startled woman and twirling her in a series of dance steps. “I can’t have blisters on my feet, after all.”

That was the kicker. While he’d effectively twirled her into silence, her anger forgotten in the wake of being spun about like a child, the very mention of ill-fitting boots brought it all back again. She reared back, slapping him hard enough that his eyes still rolled after he managed to stop his skull from spinning.

“In all my years of working, _no one_ has worn Rivera shoes and complained of something like _blisters_!” she shouted, hands on her hips. He blinked, making sure his eyes were sticking in their sockets, and then frowned down at her.

“I believe it; they’d be too afraid of being beaten otherwise.” He muttered a curse, cracking his neck. The rest of the family watched in amazement, Victoria still on her stool, Julio and Rosita in the corner, the twins on the stairs. Who on earth was this fool, who got a taste of Mamá Imelda’s wrath and _still_ spoke out of turn to her?

“ _Loco_ ,” Oscar whispered to Felipe.

“Always was,” his brother whispered back.

“Riveras do not make shoes that have blisters. They fit perfectly, each and every time. That is why we are the best!”

“Prove it.” Imelda held a finger in his face, mouth open, before closing her hand into a fist and turning to the table. She jerked the measuring tape from Julio’s space, pointed at him to stand in the middle of the room, and bent down to one knee with a scowl.

“I _will_ prove it,” she snapped as she began on his left foot. “I will make your shoes _myself_ , and you’ll see; they will be the best boots you ever put on these big feet of yours.” She muttered to herself as she measured, mixed swears and mumbles about her ‘customer’. “Look at these bones,” she clucked, thumping at his tarsal. “It looks like you’ve never worn shoes in your life.”

“Ah, _mi vida_ , you do care!” The expression he got in return would have turned milk sour, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I care… about my reputation as a shoemaker.” She stood up on her own, smacking aside his outstretched hand. “Now go.”

“Now?” Imelda threw down the measuring tape, grabbing one of the twin’s hammers and brandishing it. “Ah, I see.” He inched towards the exit, reaching for his hat. “Can I at least have a kiss goodbye?”

“Héctor!” The hammer fell far too short of its mark; she hadn’t even tried to hit him with it. Still, it spurred him into action, jamming the hat on his head and throwing the door open. Even a crazy man knew when to stop pushing.

“I’ll be back!” he called from the threshold, his torso spinning on his spin to blow her a kiss. She started out after him and he broke into a run, leaping over the closed gate and cutting through an alley.

“ _Payaso_.” Imelda picked up the hammer, rubbing out a scuff on the floor with the heel of her shoe. She looked around to see that she was the center of attention. “¿¡ _Qué_!?” She waved her hands at them. “Get back to work; what are you looking at?!”

“Oh, Mamá Imelda!” Rosita had stars in her eyes, hands clasped below her chin. The twins crept out from the landing, eyeing the hammer left on the workbench and fighting silently amongst themselves over which one Imelda still held in her hand.

“What?! What?” She had no blood to blush with, but it was clear that she was embarrassed.

“That Héctor…”

“What about him?!”

“He’s such a sweetheart, ¿no?” Victoria blew a breath out between her teeth as she picked up her needle. Imelda looked at Rosita, then the door.

“ _N_ —get back to work.”


	3. Fond Family Memories(?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda has too much time for introspection.   
> The author spent too much time researching how shoes are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad everyone is enjoying this story! It makes me smile to see the nice reviews, and to hear what everyone liked about certain chapters. Thank you all so much for your feedback! :D -JuJu

Today, Mamá Imelda was at work.

            Well, she was at work every day, but today she was at work and _working_. Normally, she busied herself with the customers; as the face of the business, it was she who gave estimates on bulk orders, she who did most of the delivering, and she who shook down—er, _persuaded_ —late payers to settle their debts in a timely fashion.

            Every Rivera had a part of shoemaking that they were best at: The twins liked hammering soles and punching eyelets, Rosita enjoyed polishing but her true talent was with numbering inventory and accounts, Julio held a steady hand when it came to carving designs, and Victoria ruled supreme over all sewing, her tiny stitches rivaling the best sewing machines money could buy. But Imelda… Imelda could do it all.  

            That was to be expected, in a sense: it was Imelda who had taught each and every one of them about shoemaking. It was Imelda who’d kissed her daughter goodbye before dawn, leaving her in her uncles’ care as she trekked across Santa Cecilia to sit for sixteen hours at the side of a wizened old widower. It was Imelda who’d lived, breathed, _dreamed_ of shoes for years, going anywhere and everywhere in order to learn as much as possible about the craft.

Mamá Imelda was an expert’s expert. 

“Calfskin, Mamá Imelda?”

“Mmhmm.” Her bony fingers ran expertly over the leather, feeling for any apparent flaw. She squinted, holding the pieces up to the light. She closed her eyes, using her fingers by themselves until she nodded to herself, choosing the pieces she decided were the best quality. Rosita watched, pen hovering above her list of inventory.

“For Papá Héctor’s boots?”

“Oh, so he’s _Papá_ Héctor now?” She opened the cabinet that held nothing but lasts, mouth pursed as she searched the sizes.

“Well…” Rosita looked to Julio for support and got a shrug in return. “He _is_ your husband, Mamá Imelda.”

“¡ _No te pases_!” She yanked the laths from the shelf, holding one in each hand and eyeballing them before turning with a scowl. “He is not fit to call me his wife!”

“And yet you make his boots,” Victoria whispered to the piece of leather in her hands.

“ _What_ was that?”

“Nothing, Mamá Imelda.” The lasts she chose hit the workbench with a solid _thump_ , and Victoria bent her head lower to hide her smile. Necks cracking and throats clearing, they all settled down for their post-lunch afternoon shift. There were orders to finish from nearly a month ago, but they all kept pausing in their work to watch her process.

Placing the lasts before her on the table, she closed her eyes and pictured Héctor’s feet. Dusty from the roads, a tiny healed fracture in his right talus that hadn’t had time to re-fuse. She hadn’t noticed his feet as a human—there would have been no need to—but yesterday she had realized how large they were, spread flat on the ground with almost no arch to speak of and long toes. He would have suffered from arthritis, had he lived to be an old man.

She didn’t like to think of him as old. Wasted what-ifs, something that was best left in the living world and not brought to this more rigid one.

She felt over the smooth wood, her hands taking the place of her eyes as she remembered the feeling of his bones. The measurements she had taken were a guide, but she had always faired better using her muscle memory. Don Martín, the man who had taught her the art of shoemaking, had praised such talent.

“You will make a good business that way, so long as you don’t lose your head and remember to always double-check yourself.” She had taken those words to heart. _Ay, Don Martín_ … she hadn’t met him in this world. She hated to think that he had already moved on, to wherever souls went after being forgotten by all living men.

She filled out the lasts, shaping it to her memory. This was when she was the most focused, blocking out everything else but the feel of wet leather beneath her hands, molding it to the wooden casts as she filled in spots that needed adjustments. He had less of an arch, but his left forefoot had a little bump that would need extra room, or else it would rub against the lining. The last thing she needed was for him to gloat about his _blisters_.

 _Now, to check_. She measured the lasts carefully, proud to find herself with only two minuscule errors. She fixed them, adding padding on one side and taking it away on the other, measuring again before nodding in satisfaction. Even if she didn’t make boots anymore—not in the quantities she used to—she still had the touch.

_You… You still got it._

_Concentrate, Imelda_. She took a deep breath, running her hands steadily over the lasts. _Don’t think about **him**. _ It was hard not to, when she was making his boots. Looking them over again, she ran her fingers all over the lasts to make sure there was no spot she had missed. The boots would be personally crafted to _his_ foot, making a custom fit that only a Rivera shoe could attest to. 

 _What does it matter?_ She grumbled to herself as she set the lasts aside, calfskin taking the front and center. She gently touched it again, this time appreciatively. Leather, in all its forms, was so diverse. It could be rough or smooth, suede or patent, buckskin or goatskin, even eel or ostrich! But the calfskin, the smooth, soft, durable calfskin… that was her favorite. That was the best, especially for boots.

_He only gets the best so that he won’t complain._

She traced the soft skin, wondering—as she always did—how she could still feel the texture of it, the warmth, when she had no skin or nerves. Being a skeleton was far more intrusive on the senses than one would think. Thankfully, what remained were good things; pain wasn’t much of a factor when you couldn’t accidentally kill yourself. Other than the shock value and the _perceived_ hurt, left over from vulnerable living days, the only thing that seemed even remotely painful was the Final Death. 

She steered her thoughts away from that subject with a little shake, forcing herself to focus on the calfskin as she began to cut. Even the slightest shake of the hand, the smallest error, and she would have wasted what was otherwise good leather. She hunched her shoulders, bending lower so that she could watch the path of her hand as it traced the shapes, cutting slowly so that each piece would be worth keeping. Soon she had all the pieces ready, with only scraps left over that could be used to pad lasts on the next person’s custom shoes. She prided herself on not wasting leather, on using only what was needed and not leaving behind large quantities of unusable product.

She breathed easier now that the main cutting was finished, already planning her next steps. There was a large piece of thicker leather she could use for the lining, if the boys hadn’t already claimed it for one of their silly inventions. The boots wouldn’t feel any stiffer by the time she finished stretching it out, and they would hold up to almost any physical activity.

 _He can dance on as many tables as he wants and not be bothered in the slightest._ She shook her head again, twisting a stray lock back into her hairstyle. How did he keep worming his way into her thoughts?

 _I shouldn’t be surprised._ After all, it had always been that way, hadn’t it? There had never been a time he _wasn’t_ on her mind, even before he ever started courting her. He was always somehow on the same side of St. Cecilia that she was, watching her from the street corners and smiling that goofy smile whenever she glared at him. And after, bribing Oscar and Felipe to find out where she’d be, even standing in her foyer with her mamá fussing about how thin he was. _When a girl has to drop out of her own window to avoid you… iQue necio! Get it through your thick skull!_

 _Of course_ , she sighed to herself as she matched up the lining and the calfskin, making sure they were equal, _it was all just nervousness._ She had been old enough to be married, and certainly old enough that the men of St. Cecilia were looking at her. She had taken pride in her appearance, and she knew that she was beautiful. But every time a boy had even dared to show interest, her mother would be overjoyed. _Too_ overjoyed.

She hadn’t been ready to settle down. She had watched over her _hermanos_ all her life, and the thought of having more children, right after gaining her freedom from having them underfoot, made her sick to the stomach. And boys wanted to kiss—she’d kissed Francisco Aquino behind the church one day, and she hadn’t liked it one bit. Too wet and odd, not at all like the supposedly good, fluttery kisses her friends had giggled about.

And they seemed afraid of her, anyway.  Mamá had always complained about her temper, and the twins knew how to skirt around the edges of her anger without earning a one-on-one meeting with the broad side of her shoe. But the men liked to tease her, to whisper about how cute she was and openly pull her hair or tug at her dress, trying to make her angry _on purpose_. Of course, when they found themselves on the ground with a bruised jaw, they stopped talking to her.

That was the way she liked it. When the men didn’t come to call, her mother stopped hinting at wedding bells and she was able to go about her life in peace. All the men in St. Cecelia knew to leave her alone, for their own safety if nothing else. All except….

“Oh, that Rivera boy is so sweet _, muy educado y guapo, ¿no?_ ¿ _Cómo se llama_?”

And the twins, so dutifully, happy to tease her in her mortification:

“Héctor! His name is Héctor!”

“Héctor!” Even now, she could see her mother smiling at her over the dinner table. “He’s got a cute face, doesn’t he _mija_? A little _flaco_ , but a few months of your cooking would fix that right up!”

“His face is ugly, Mamá. I don’t like him.”

“What? What’s wrong with him? Listen, he is a good boy and he’s hardworking; he’d make anyone a fine husband.”

As if hard work and decency were the only factors in choosing a husband. She couldn’t help but smile remembering, so many years later, that she judged Julio on those exact factors. Julio had been a hard worker, and he was a good and honest young man. But… just one look at him and she’d known that he truly loved her Coco. _Did Mamá look at Héctor and know the same things I knew about Julio?_

 She didn’t have an answer.

* * *

“He’s late.” The words pulled Imelda out of her trance; she immediately halted her knife, not willing to make a cut unless entirely focused on it. She could—and did—spend hours on end making miniscule corrections to her original cuts, long before she ever began working on the liners.

In agreement with Rosita’s statement, the clock struck half past four. Imelda straightened her neck, looking around at the rest of the table. The family seemed to be at a funeral, their faces were so solemn. The twins shared a concerned glance, Victoria furrowing her brow at the open door before looking back down with a small sigh.

“And?” She didn’t have to ask _who_ they were speaking of.

“He’s never late.” Rosita’s fingers nervously drummed the table. “He’s been coming over two months now, and he’s never been late once.”

“I hope nothing happened to him.” Julio rubbed his mustache, stretching his arms over his head and shaking his wrists loose before picking up his chisel again.

“Perhaps he decided not to come.” _And the better for it,_ she added smugly to herself.

“But why would he not come? Especially now that—” Victoria interrupted her father with a loud series of coughs, fanning her face with the leather. “ _Mija, mija?!_ ”

“What on earth?” Imelda dropped her knife, running around the corner of the table and taking her needlework away before rubbing her back soothingly. “Are you alright?” From her new position, she couldn’t see the imperative look Victoria shot the rest of them over her glasses, reminding them of their secret.

“ _Sí_ , Mamá Imelda, I just breathed a little wrong, that’s all. I’m better now,” she assured her, wiping her eyes. “Papá: you were saying?”

“I… I meant: Especially now that you’re working on his boots, Mamá.”

“Nonsense!” she huffed, giving her granddaughter one last pat before going back to her workstation. “Do I need him here, breathing over my shoulder as I cut leather? ¡ _En absoluto_!”

“Even so, I thought he might come anyway,” Rosita murmured, unsure whether to keep pushing the subject or not. “After all, he hasn’t missed a day so far. And you’re _here_ now, so—”

“All the more reason for him not to come,” Imelda replied sharply. “Do you think I want to see him? No. I can do without seeing him for another hundred years. He is not worth my notice.” Oscar slowly turned his eyes to his brother, who rolled his own as she continued uninterrupted. “A silly, clumsy man; he’s late? Of course! He was never any good to begin with. _No sé por qué_ —”

“Imelda, please.” Felipe cleared his throat, avoiding his sister’s eye when she glared at him. “Erm… that is to say… don’t waste time repeating things we all have heard before.”

 “We know how he is.” Oscar hammered fast to make up for his nervous tone.

“Well… in any case.” She took up her knife, squinting at her work. “I’ll be much happier if he never comes by at all.”

“If you’re happy, Mamá Imelda, then we’re happy,” Victoria nodded as she spoke, a wry twist to her mouth. “That’s all we want for you.”

“ _Sí_ , _hermana_ ; Victoria is right.”

“Anything you want,” Rosita summed up. “We love you too much to see you sad.” Taken aback, Imelda looked around the table before offering a rare, shy smile of her own. They all smiled back, none of them daring to say a word about how Imelda didn’t seem to know her own happiness.

The matter was dropped until after supper, when the moon was just rising over the farthest reaches of the horizon. Julio stared out at the empty street, reluctant to close the door just in case their visitor came rushing in at the last minute. Héctor was not a man to change passions so easily, to simply _forget_ to come by for a visit. Undoubtedly, this was some scheme of his. Even as Julio knew this, he also knew that his sister was getting worried about the man; even the usually phlegmatic Victoria seemed ill at ease tonight.

But there was no sign of a ragged straw hat, no clinking of bare bones over the cobblestones, and he was forced to shut and latch the door with as little ceremony as usual. He waddled back into the dining/meeting/anything area that stood between the kitchenette and the broad side of the staircase; it was big enough only for the table, the eight mismatched chairs haphazardly shoved around all sides, and a corner shelf holding some candles, some bobbins, two books and a ceramic pig.

The Riveras, being one of the most affluent families in the Land of the Dead, could have bought a giant mansion to rival Ernesto de la Cruz’s. They could have had fountains blowing the clearest, coldest water, large, festive flashing lights all over their rooftops, a separate wing for each family member, and a swimming pool in the shape of a shoe.

That was not what they wanted.

None of them had ever lived in a large house, so Imelda had secured for them a modest two-story hacienda with high walled fences and a back garden. The front living area was the workshop, the sitting room a remodeled downstairs guest room. The mudroom had been taken over by Rosita’s herb garden. Imelda kept another guest room full of supplies, the twins using a closet to house their failed shoe inventions. The kitchen was a living and work area combined, just large enough that all three women could stand abreast of each other.

Any other well-to-do businessmen would have been stifled by the feeling of being crowded, of having an entire family often piled up into one room—unless they were sleeping—with walls just thin enough that you were never in complete silence. But that was the way Imelda and her family had lived in life. That was what they knew, what they were comfortable with. No one dreamt of a bigger house—besides, when more family died and crossed over the bridge, they could always clean out a guest room and make space for a new generation to join their home.   

“Did you see anything interesting?” Rosita asked when he entered the room.

“Nothing but the moon,” he answered, taking his comfortably worn-out chair between her and Victoria. “What do you have there?” he asked, peering over at his daughter’s book. She looked at him over her lenses before flipping the book over to show a plainly stitched cover, the words _Mi Vida, Mi_ _Pérdida_ stamped in gold embossed lettering. “What on earth?”

“It’s a romance,” she replied, turning back to her page and resettling her glasses. “I borrowed it from Doña Leticia.” She meant their close neighbor, a former librarian whose family left her bestselling romances on the ofrenda. “I’m glad it’s a hardback; I don’t like those flimsy paper ones they gave her last year.”

“You shouldn’t read those things,” Imelda fussed, looking up from her needlepoint. “Romance… pah! Those are vulgar books; when I was a girl, I would have been embarrassed to even _hear_ of such a story, and here you are bringing a new one into the house every time I turn around.” 

“It’s not as though I read them aloud, Mamá Imelda.” Victoria turned the page. “This one isn’t so bad; a man and a woman fall in love while dying of tuberculosis. It’s set in your time.”

“My time?”

“1915.”

“Humph.” Imelda plucked at an errant stitch. “Even worse. How do these so-called authors know how we behaved in 1915? We certainly didn’t go around talking about such things, that’s for sure. Why, before marriage…” she clucked, shaking her head. “I knew nothing of the nature of such things. And my Coco _certainly_ didn’t know until the night before her wedding.”

“Héctor must have been a very handsome young man in 1915, no?” Rosita asked cheerfully.

“I… he wasn’t the ugliest man in St. Cecilia,” Imelda acknowledged reluctantly. “Neither was he the handsomest.”

“Who was the handsomest? Ernesto de la Cruz?”

“Well… I never thought _him_ so handsome either, though the other girls did.” She sewed steadily for a moment, lost in thought. “I suppose Fernando Garcia was a handsome boy. But my friend Lucía was in love with him, so I never thought about him. And he never tried to kiss me.”

“No, _hermana_ , please.” Oscar made a face at the shoe in his hand, half torn apart as he tinkered with it. “We don’t want to hear about who kissed you in 1915.”

“Héctor was bad enough,” Felipe agreed.

“I _distinctly_ remember two boys who liked nothing more than to tell Mamá _who_ I had been seen with at the plaza. And I also seem to recall two boys who tried to hide in the tree every time Héctor came to visit me, just to see if he _would_ kiss me while he was there!”

“Who? Two boys?” Felipe turned to Oscar. “Do you remember two boys like that?”

“I don’t, brother.”

“Who, Imelda?”

“ _Sí, gemelos_ who would corner me in the hallway, teasing me until I had no choice but to beat them back with my shoes!”

“Us?!”

“Surely not!” Rosita laughed. “I can’t imagine Tío Oscar or Tío Felipe doing something like that!”

“Don’t let them fool you,” Imelda warned, throwing her needlepoint down and crossing her arms. “They were devils!”

“We were Mamá’s precious _angelitos_ ; stop spreading lies.” Victoria held her place with one finger, closing her book as she looked across the table curiously.

“Lies?!” She raised one finger, ready to launch into a tirade, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Oh!” Rosita squeaked in a hushed whisper. “Could it be?” Victoria leaned around, her skull nearly coming lose as she craned her neck towards the door.

“I’ll get it.” Julio rose to his feet, clomping back through the workshop. “Yes?”

“ _Señor_ Rivera.” Rosita visibly sagged when Julio stepped back to show a young skeleton dressed in modern clothing; she was one of their newest customers, the leader of a small up-and-coming dance troupe. She held a box tightly in her hands. “I’m sorry for coming so late in the evening, but I had to wait until practice was through.”

“It’s not too late,” Imelda countered smoothly, waving Julio away as she wound her way through the workshop to greet their customer. “What brings you here; is there a problem with your order?”

“No, _Señora_ , I mean yes, I mean…” she held out the box hesitantly. “I only ordered seven pairs of shoes, one for each girl plus myself. You brought the order by but when I unpacked it, there were eight pairs. You gave me one pair too many, you see. I didn’t pay for this one, and I was afraid it might have been part of someone else’s order that had been mixed up with mine.”

Imelda turned to the twins, who stood with the rest of the family in the doorway between the dining area and the workshop. They looked at each other, fingering their mustaches.  

“Oscar,” said his brother slowly, “did you make four pairs of shoes?”

“Yes, brother: I made four pairs and you three.”

“No… I thought _I_ was to make four pairs and _you_ three.”

“We both made four pairs.” They nodded at each other, the mystery solved. “Sorry, Imelda.”

“That’s alright. Better to have one pair too many than one pair needed.” She turned back to the young skeleton. “Thank you for your honesty. Keep the shoes. You may need them someday, and they won’t have any use around here. We don’t dance,” she said, eyeing the table, “…often.”

“Oh, I _couldn’t_ keep them. I didn’t pay for them!”

“Consider them a gift, then. It’s hard to start a business,” she said knowingly, tilting her head as she smiled down at the eternally young woman.

“I— ¡ _gracias, Señora_ Rivera, _muchas gracias_!” Tears brimmed in the young woman’s eyes. “I’m… I’m so grateful!”

“De nada, it’s no trouble.” Imelda backed out of the door, waving her arm. “Won’t you come in? It’s a long way home for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s why I need to get going—no offense. I have to make a new routine….” She trailed off, suddenly shy. She clutched the box to her chest, tucking her chin down as she shifted nervously from foot to foot. “I… erm… I hope I’m not being too forward, _Señora_ , but—”

“Yes?” She unglued one arm from the box to push her thin bangs out of her eyes. “What is it?”

“I was wondering if I might… one day… have a photo of your dress!” she finished in a rush.

“My dress? Whatever for?” Imelda looked at Rosita and Victoria, who shrugged together that they, too, had no idea what the young girl meant.

“Because, _Señora_ , I was at the Sunrise Spectacular. I had saved for a ticket to see Frida’s famous dancers.” She smiled timidly. “You danced so beautifully, and… La Llorona was—is—my favorite song. My _tía_ used to sing it.” Imelda’s eyes widened in surprise, her mouth working wordlessly before she cleared her throat in dignified embarrassment.

“It’s… it’s my favorite song, too.” The young lady nodded.

“And… I thought I might make a routine to it, based on how you danced at the Spectacular. And I wanted to recreate your dress, too.” She nodded to the purple fabric. “So, perhaps? A photo?”

“I… I don’t… yes.” Imelda patted her hair, smoothing it down. “Bring a camera, and I will sit for a portrait.” The woman blinked in confusion before shoving her hand into her pocket, juggling the shoebox as she pulled out a cell phone. “What is—”

“I have a camera on my phone,” the woman explained, with all the flippancy of the newest generation of the dead. “Smile.” Imelda barely had time to obey before the girl clicked her thumb once, flipping the screen around to show Imelda in the forefront with a very mature, noble expression, her family in the background staring on in awe.

“Yes… capturing life,” Imelda sighed. “Will that photo do?”

“Oh, yes! _Gracias_ , _Señora_!” The young woman seemed overjoyed as she stuck her phone back into her pocket. “I can never repay you, for the photo _or_ the shoes! She backed out of the gate, still gushing. “Thank you so much! Thank  you!” Imelda waved and she took off, practically running towards the spiraling lights of the tallest skyscrapers where the modern youth lived.

“Oh, think of it, Mamá Imelda!” Rosita gasped. “You could be famous!”

“I could be,” she agreed dryly. “But I’d rather not have half a dozen of me running about onstage like Frida Kahlo.”

* * *

Imelda sat before her _tocador,_ staring at herself in the reflection of the tall mirror. Her window was open, letting the cool night air stir her curtains and circulate in the room. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the murmurs of the twins in their bedroom next door, the soft footsteps of Victoria as she passed down the hallway, Julio locking up the workshop downstairs. The sounds of her family drowned out the chirruping of crickets and soft babble of water from the tiny fountain in the garden. 

She let out a slow breath, unwinding the intricate hairstyle she wore and letting her curls tumble down her back. She spent extra time folding the ribbon, placing it neatly on the corner of the white table for tomorrow’s use. There was no reason for a rush; the relaxing pace was one of her favorite parts about her nightly routine.

Her routine in the afterlife was the same as her routine had been _in_ life, modeled after her childhood days of watching her mother prepare for bed, when Oscar and Felipe had been small children. Like most little girls, she had loved nothing more than when her mother would let her take a seat at the (then enormous) mirror, brushing out her hair with her gentle, calloused hands and showing her how to plait it neatly in a loose braid for nighttime. She remembered the love she’d felt as she’d shown the same to Coco, her fingers weary after hours of sewing tongues.

Now the cold cream, in a small jar beside the combs. She had no skin to moisturize, but that didn’t mean cold cream wasn’t still beneficial. It kept her lipstick from staining her bones, and it cleaned the day’s grime from her skull. She spread on a thin later, covering the colorful markings on her face until she was all white skull and brown eyes. Then a wet cloth, rubbed in gentle circles until her bones were glistening white and the mascara was gone from her long eyelashes.

The makeup wasn’t necessary, but it was something she chose to do just as she chose to wear earrings without ears and a choker without a real neck. It made her feel beautiful, womanly, to make herself up in the mornings. Besides, she’d done it for so long, ever since she had become a young lady and her mother had showed her how to apply her lipstick without caking it. To not spend time in the morning on her appearance would be… odd, to say the least.

And it helped to diversify oneself. She remembered waking up dead, seeing her skinless face for the first time. How _strange_ it had been! She hadn’t been frightened, per se, but she had spent a good many minutes running her hands over her bones, staring at her reflection in one of the cracked mirrors at the Station. If she squinted, she could see what she used to look like, mapping flesh over bone until she could recall her reflection at twenty, at forty, at sixty.

Still, skulls were skulls and without softer facial features, most people looked the same at first glance. It was the hair and clothing, the jewelry and cosmetics, along with the individual bright markings on their skulls—no two alike, for even the twins had very miniscule differences in the otherwise identical paint—that helped to tell everyone apart from everyone else. After all, the Land of the Dead was a large place. It was far too easy to get lost in the crowds.

She eyed the streaks of gray near her temples. They were marks of wisdom and experience; she wasn’t ashamed of them. They were medals, rewards earning her a place as the head of the family. Years of stress and strife and the pains of a moral coil made them, and who cared if they were considered ‘old’?

In this world, age didn’t matter. Children often outlived their parents, especially as the generations grew more advanced. Her Coco was _well_ past her age now. It didn’t matter; Coco was still her daughter, and when she came to the land of the dead, she would love her just as much as an old woman as she ever did as a child.

Héctor, too. They had died many years apart; he had been a young man, and she an old woman. But that didn’t seem to make a difference now. She saw him as _Héctor_ , not an age. She knew that he saw her the same way, as Imelda. It was a strange mindset to someone in the living world, but it just made _sense_ , somehow, in some odd way. Many things made more sense after you died.

The breeze picked up and she walked to the window, reaching up to close the heavy glass panes. She paused instead, looking out at the night. The light from her bedroom lit most of the garden, from the tiny courtyard with grass growing between the bricks to the little fountain, pattering away as it bubbled against the stones in its bottom. The tall yellow pine, an exact copy of a tree her parents had in _their_ courtyard, swayed in the wind. Beneath it the stone bench was cast into shadow, but she knew that Rosita’s herbs and flowers grew there, scattered around the roots where birds had taken her seeds.

She looked over the wall to the city, spread up, up, up before her. Her neighborhood was quiet, being mostly cramped shops and houses that faced away from the main street. It was reminiscent of her adult home, the home that the Riveras still occupied. But that didn’t stop the lights of the city’s livelier quarters from filtering in, the soft _thump, thump, thumping_ of music somewhere in the distance. It _was_ distant, though; the neighborhood was an island in the city, separate and peaceful even with the mainland within sight.

 _Perhaps the breeze isn’t so cold_ , she thought as she leaned against the windowpane, wrapping her thin robe closer around her nightgown. She closed her eyes, pulling her braid over her shoulder and running her fingers over it slowly, feeling the soft rope of hair. The _thump, thump_ of the distant bass was a heartbeat, a slow, steady tempo. She could almost hear a melody, if she concentrated enough.

 _Twang!_ She jumped as something sailed past her head, skittering across the tiles of the bedroom floor before skidding to a stop behind her. She spun around, looking for the culprit. Sometimes a bird _alebrije_ would mistakenly fly through the window, but that was no bird. She blinked, her stance defensive as she tried to find what was different, what didn’t belong in her bedroom.

She finally found it beneath the _tocador_ , nearly against the far wall. It looked like… an arm? Feeling bold, she reached beneath the chair and pulled it out into the open, holding it by the radius. It was an arm, a forearm… a suspiciously _familiar_ forearm with old duct tape wound around the bone nearest the missing elbow joint.

_Of course…._

Tied to the arm, perpendicular to the bone, were three flowers. The twine used to secure them to the bone was loose, and she pulled them out by the stems to view them in the light. Five soft, dark purple petals with beautiful pinkish-plum insides, a tiny yellow circle at the apex, right in the very center. Purple laelieas.

¿ _Cuál es tu flor favorita_?

She ran to the window, leaning out it as far as she could to see if she could see him in the garden. That’s where he had to be, right? There was nothing. The night was just as quiet as before. Nothing stirred.

She growled in frustration, taking his arm bone and slinging it as far as she could. She heard a faint splash as it landed in the fountain. _Good! I hope the rest of you falls in as well, cobarde!_

She slammed the window shut, throwing the curtains over the glass and going straight to bed. She was just about to extinguish the light when she realized she still held the flowers. It was a disgrace, a tiny, pitiable bouquet. Still, they were her favorites. _Over ninety years and he still remembers what my favorite flowers are…. Tonto._

She put them on the bedside table, sighing as she lay down and turned out the light. The lights of the city flickered through the curtains, casting glowing shadows on the soft, faintly fluttering petals. She heard the twins murmuring softly to each other in the dark, Julio’s snoring and Rosita’s tiny squeaks, the soft footsteps of Victoria as she finally, finally went to bed. The sounds of her family drowned out the soft chirruping of crickets, and softer curses of a man who tried to fish his own arm out of the fountain in the garden without falling in.


	4. Imelda's Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! 
> 
> Imelda has a 1930s movie-style flashback.  
> It's nice to remember~

 Imelda poked her head around the corner of her hacienda’s back gate, chewing nervously on her lip as she looked around. The courtyard was abandoned, the only movement a lazy breeze that stirred the thick leaves of the old yellow pine.

            “Oscar?” she hazarded after a moment, her voice never rising above a whisper. “Felipe?” Her twin younger brothers made it their life’s mission to torment her like a couple of demons, but they were the only ones she could trust to have her back when she really needed it. She dared not try to ask for her mother’s help, and her father was always at work unless it was mealtime. Adults, like her father’s workers, never heeded her; they gave her their sympathy, but ultimately agreed with her mother. It wasn’t worth the extra effort to rally them to her cause.

            There was a rustling movement from the far corner of the main house; she froze, hoping beyond hope that it was her brothers. She had left without permission… though that would have normally only been cause for a light scolding, she was sure Mamá would put two and two together. She wanted to defer the lecture as long as possible.

            A man walked around the corner. He was broad enough to fill any doorway, strong enough to lift a grown man over his head with ease, and tall enough to tower over anyone standing in his general vicinity. His greased hair was streaked with lines of deep gray, the same that dominated his thick beard and mustache. His cotton shirt was stained with a mix of sweat and filth, his pants faring little better. His chestnut-brown eyes were stern and demanding, a true patriarch over his domain.

            She breathed a sigh of relief.

            “Papá!” She ran up to him, stopping just short of colliding with his barreled chest. His usual scent was a stifling mix of old sweat, animals, and earth; when she was younger, the pungent odor hadn’t stopped her from embracing him with fervor. Now that she was technically grown she reached for his arm instead, holding the least dirty parts as she smiled up at him. His eyes softened and he wiped his hand on the last clean bit of his shirt before gently pinching her cheek.

            “ _Lindita_.” She swallowed a sigh, allowing him to pat her cheek before letting go. Her parents still called her by their little pet names, and while she didn’t _openly_ complain about it, they still made her feel like a child. She was almost seventeen, for goodness sake! “Your mother has been looking for you,” he said after a moment, tilting his head just enough for his warm gaze to turn reprimanding. She averted her eyes, a faint blush stealing across her cheeks. She could take hours of Mamá lectures without batting an eye, but Papá only had to look at her in that kind, disappointed manner for her to feel guilty.

            “ _Perdóname_ , Papá.” She closed her eyes when he patted her cheek once more, leaning into the dirty, calloused touch. He hummed softly, his thumb running beneath her eye as he tilted her head up.

            “It’s almost suppertime,” he said at last. “Wash up and go help your mother.”

            “Yes, Papá.” She stepped back and allowed him to walk past her, towards his tool shed. Her cheek still tingled from his touch, and she let out the sigh she’d been holding once he was out of earshot. She was Papá’s favorite, his firstborn and only daughter. Not that he didn’t love his sons; that wasn’t the case at all. But everyone knew, without saying anything, that she was his special little girl.

But, even if it was true, it didn’t mean he’d ever take her side over his wife’s.

The back of the house was thankfully empty, and she quickly sped through the halls to the kitchen in an effort to remain unnoticed. She slowed to a walk as she neared the room, not wanting to add another strike to her already-marred record.

Her mother was already there, standing with her legs spread before the stove where pots were bubbling and food frying. Mamá wasn’t an imposing figure, her head barely clearing the twins’ shoulders; however, what she lacked in size she made up for in spirit and voice.

She had once been a very beautiful woman, and had aged happily, if not gracefully. She’d lost her figure after three children, with laugh lines around her mouth and creases near her eyes, silvery strands of hair decorating her temples. But her eyes still twinkled with a merry light that the stress of adulthood hadn’t diminished, and her plump curves were good for cuddling… when she wasn’t making a scene.

 “Imelda? ¿ _Eres tú, mija?_ ” She winced, brushing the dust from her skirts before walking into the room properly.

“Yes, Mamá.” She presented herself, sweat sticking to the back of her neck and her hands clasped behind her back. “Sorry I’m late.” Her mother turned from the stove, narrowing her eyes and clicking her tongue in disapproval.

“¿ _Dónde has estado_? Oh, never mind,” she tsked, waving her hands when Imelda opened her mouth to explain. “The food is ready and the table still needs to be set.” She pointed at the dish cabinet. “And when you’re done, call your brothers.”

“Yes, Mamá….” She gathered up the plates and glasses, setting them out in the proper order. Her skin prickled every time her mother looked in her direction, but the woman stayed quiet, at least for the moment. Imelda sighed to herself, knowing that it wasn’t going to be a peaceful family dinner. The most she could hope for was Papá grunting that he’d heard enough, saving her a whole evening of being scolded for her indiscretion.

When she was through, she went to the foot of the stairs and peered into the gloom of the second story, where the fading sunlight cast long shadows on the walls.

“¡ _La cena está lista_! Oscar? Felipe?!” She put one foot on the stairs, ready to march up and drag them down. She was more surprised that they weren’t already downstairs, eavesdropping. There seemed to be no greater delight for them than to hear her get into trouble. It wasn’t fair; they were Mamá’s favorites, her little _angelitos_ , and they never got into trouble unless Papá caught them in the middle of some scheme.

She wasn’t halfway up the stairs when they came running around the corner, sliding on the rug at the head of the staircase before barreling down it. Tall as Papá, they were stretched as thin as taffy pulled by the candy man. At only twelve they were already showing the beginnings of a mustache at the corners of their lips, their wild hair sticking up in identical cowlicks. She braced herself for impact; they swung around her at the last minute, laughing as they flew down the stairs.

She grabbed for both of them and managed to nab Oscar. He’d always been the slower of the two, even coming into the world a full six minutes after his brother. He wriggled in her grasp, voicing wordless complaints as she held him fast.

“Was Mamá angry?” she asked, already half-knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway. Oscar paused in his escape efforts, eyeing her with a pout.

“Lemme go and I’ll tell you.”

“You’ll tell me now, or I’ll make you sorry!” He twisted, looking over his shoulder to see that Felipe had abandoned him to his fate.

“Alright, alright!” He yelled, only when she began to wrap her arm around his bony neck in her signature older-sister headlock. “She was! She even made us go upstairs until he left.” His pout returned, this time at the unfairness of actually being told to mind his manners. _Ugh, she really **was** angry, then. _ She felt a small shiver of trepidation run up her spine.

“Did you tell her where I went?”

“No, of course not!” He twisted harder, pulling her down the stairs with him. It took her by surprise, just how big they were getting. After all, they’d been able to reach her feet before she was halfway out the window; if Felipe hadn’t slipped on one of Mamá’s trailing vines, they wouldn’t have dropped her. “Didn’t know what excuse you’d make,” he mumbled. That was smart of them, then.

“ _Gracias_ , Oscar.” She wrapped him in an impulsive, almost threatening embrace. Even if they were devils, they were still her brothers. They had no gain by helping her climb out the window to escape her mother, but they’d done it anyway. There was a loyalty there, if she looked beneath the constant mocking and fighting. It made her heart warm.

“Hey! No, get off!” He finally fought himself free, sticking out his tongue at her before leaping the last three stairs and shooting off after his brother. She scowled after him. _I try to be nice, and this is how I’m treated?_ Maybe her heart didn’t warm so much after all….

            “Imelda? _Mija_ , come!” She turned on the stair, picking up her skirt so the wet hem would stop slapping against her shoes. She ran back through to the kitchen, stopping once to splash some water on her face, scrub the dirt from her nails and pat down her hair. It would only be all the worse if she showed up late _and_ in an unkempt manner to the family meal.

            “I’m sorry,” she said as she hurried to the table, letting Mamá take a seat as she began to serve everyone. At sixteen she was a young lady, her mother expecting her to learn the proper way to manage a household and serve a family until her own daughter—if she had one—took over from her.

            “What’s gotten into you today?” Mamá asked in a vein of rare exasperation. She frowned, her brow furrowed as she watched her daughter spoon soup into the twins’ bowls. “Where were you, anyway?” Imelda didn’t answer right away, finishing her duties and taking her own seat at Papá’s left side, tucking her napkin neatly into her lap.

“I went to the riverbank with Lucía,” she finally explained. “There was no one around and I thought…. I stayed much later than I meant to,” she quickly finished, taking a mouthful of soup to keep from having to say more. It wasn’t a lie… well, not a _whole_ lie. Lucía really had gone with her to the riverbank; they were best friends, and she had been more than happy to give Imelda a solid alibi. But that wasn’t the reason she’d left in the first place. To tell Mamá her true intentions would be suicide. 

            “ _Ay_ , Imelda….” Mamá shook her head, rubbing her temples. “You’re far too old to be running about unchaperoned. You’re a young lady now,” she added, as if that explained everything. If it had just been the two of them, she might have argued that Lucía counted as a chaperone. But she must not argue with her mother in front of Papá. She bit her tongue, staring down at her bowl.

            “That alone is bad enough, but another thing: a young man came by, and you were nowhere to be found!” The twins asked for another helping and she stood to refill their bowls. They locked eyes with her and for once, they weren’t silently laughing at her. They actually seemed to pity her, offering quiet thanks as she handed their bowls back. “ _Pobrecito_ , he waited such a long time! It broke my heart to see him give up and go away, and after I’d searched all over the house for you, shouting myself hoarse calling your name!”

            “Who was it?” Papá grunted, dabbing the soup from his mustache.

            “It was Héctor Rivera, the little _flaco_ with the patched coat.” Her father nodded his recognition. Imelda let out a breath, unable to stop her nostrils from flaring. Her mother immediately caught it, pursing her lips. “What is that look for?  What’s the matter? He’s a very polite young man!”

            Of course she’d think so. Stupid Héctor, with his big ears and bigger nose, and that pointed chin, and those wide eyes, and his crooked smiles! Of _course_ he was polite, of _course_ she liked him. She’d like any boy who showed preference for her _niñita_. Stupid, stupid Héctor! That…that… _payaso tonto_! She grew angry just thinking about him!

            “Imelda, _escúchame_ : when I was your age—” _Oh, here we go._ Shoulders slumped, she sipped her soup and settled in for the tried and true ‘marriage’ spiel. “When I was your age, I was already married to your father. I was barely out of my _quinceañera_ dress when we began courting. Here you are, almost seventeen, and you have turned down every boy in town! What are you waiting for, ¿ _un príncipe_? Is there no man in St. Cecelia good enough for you?”

            “They don’t like me, Mamá.” It was her traditional response, void of all real meaning. Everyone at the table knew the truth.

            “¡ _Es porque tienes mal genio_! No man will want you when you act _muy irritable e impaciente_.”  Mamá nodded in time with her words, shaking her wet spoon. “You have to be genteel. What have I told you? A lady is _tranquila_ , _educada_ , _ordenada_ _y_ _amable_. That means no rudeness, no shouting, and certainly no fighting!”

            “But Mamá—” She was interrupted, her mother tsking as she shook her head. She held out her bowl for Imelda to fill.

“You must throw aside these childish tendencies, like the _muñeca_ your father gave you. It’s symbolic of leaving your childhood behind and embracing womanhood.”

            “But _Mamá_ —”

            “No buts. It is just the way of life.” Imelda sat back down and turned to her father.

            “Papá, tell her that—”

            “Imelda.” She closed her mouth, knowing without his telling her that she was stepping out of line. Her face burned with frustration, angry tears pricking her eyes as she looked down at the table. “We’ve given you many liberties growing up. Perhaps… perhaps too many.”

            “Papá?” Her father took one look at her mother before bowing his head, focusing on his soup to avoid her eyes. “Papá, please.”

            “You are still young, _mija_. You must understand.”

            “I do _not_ understand!” The twins gasped, spoons clattering in their bowls. She found herself on her feet, hands clenched into fists. Her parents looked at her in utter amazement; even as temperamental as she was, she had never been outright defiant to their authority. 

            “Imelda!”

            “It’s not fair!” The words she had kept bottled up deep inside of her came bursting out, with no way to stop the flow. “ _Why_ must I do this? Why should I have to choose a husband? I don’t want a husband, and I don’t want a _family_! I hate it! I would rather die!” Her mother gasped too, a hurtful sound that pierced through her breast and into her heart.

            “Imelda!” Mamá repeated, and when she looked, there were confused tears in her eyes. “Imelda, what on earth are you saying?” She stood panting, feeling strangely empty now that she had shouted her feelings to the table.

            “Papá?” Her voice was hoarse now. “Papá, may I be excused?” She felt as though she might cry, although that would be shameful. Perhaps she would; she felt numb all over, like the time the twins had poured a bucket of spring water over her head.  

“Yes.” For once, neither he nor her mother hinted at clearing the table. “ _Ve a tu cuarto_.” She stood up, pushed her chair in, and slowly made her way up to the bedroom.

By the time she reached her door, standing alone in the dark hallway, she was thawed enough to feel the tears on her cheeks.

* * *

She couldn’t sleep that night. The twins had gone to bed some time ago, the muffled chatter of their voices dropping off into quiet snores. She combed the snags out of her hair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She considered herself a somewhat beautiful woman. She didn’t have Lucía’s perfect eyebrows or Gabriela’s sculpted cheekbones, but she made up for it in other ways.  Papá said she looked like Mamá with her dark eyelashes and willowy figure. Mamá said she looked like Papá with her chestnut eyes and round nose. Her brothers said she looked like _un caballo_ until she put them in a headlock, one arm around each neck until they choked out an apology.

She knew, deep down, that her parents were right. The men of the town didn’t like her because they were threatened of her, if not _by_ her. She was not a woman to giggle and act coy around the plaza fountain; she didn’t blush every time a man called her pretty like Lucía. She certainly didn’t let them pull her hair and pinch her cheeks like Alejandra or Maria or Gabriela.

From as early as childhood, her temper was always getting her into trouble. It often happened before she could think; a boy whistled at her, and the next thing they both knew, he was on the ground and she was standing over him with an empty basket in her hands, groceries scattered all over his once-pristine clothing. He never bothered her after that.

It’s not as if she _cared_ what they thought of her. A tiny, miniscule part of her always hoped… dreamed… that she could go unmarried forever. That Mamá and Papá would let her live with them indefinitely, and she could go on as she always had. But she knew that it was only a dream. Both her parents considered it her duty as a woman to marry, and so marry she would. To be unmarried— a spinster— would be an embarrassment to the family.

 _Who **cares** about the family? _ She frowned at her reflection. _Why can’t I do as I please?_ She knew the answer to that, too. _Marianismo_. Her mother had quoted it to her often enough, her tongue dragging on the syllables to hammer it in. A woman’s place was in the home, putting her family ahead of her own desires for the good of everyone. A good homemaker, a frugal spender, a caring mother: these are what made a proper Mexican wife.

“Imelda?” There was a soft knock at the door, and her mother peered in. “Are you still awake?”

“Yes, Mamá.” She felt a lump in her throat, the delayed humiliation of making a scene at the table. She knew, without being told, that she was far too old to be throwing a tantrum like a baby. She looked away from the door, clutching the comb tightly in her hand.

“ _Ay_ , _mija_.” Her mother closed the door, looking at her with a sad, sympathetic light. “Come here.” She sat on the end of the bed, patting the place next to her. Imelda obediently sat next to her, staring down at her lap. Mamá took her face in both hands, turning her head and wiping the remnants of tearstains from her cheeks with roughened fingers.

“Imelda, your papá and I don’t say such things because we want you to be angry or sad. We’re just doing what’s best for you, _mija_. There will come a time when you realize that family is the most important thing in the world. Nothing comes before it.”

“ _Marianismo_ ,” she replied flatly, but Mamá shook her head.

“No, not just _marianismo_.” She took a deep breath. “We all give up things for our families. Men, women… it’s doesn’t matter. It’s all the same in the end. Sometimes, for the people we love, we have to make sacrifices.”

“Mamá…” She felt her breath fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird. “I’m not ready to be a wife. I’m still….” She fell silent, reaching for her mother’s hand and holding it against her cheek, soaking up all the emotion that poured from the calloused palm.

“Oh, Imelda.” Her mother wrapped her in a hug, one of the tight ones that she usually suffocated in. this time it wasn’t tight or constricting at all; on the contrary, it made her feel warm, loved and safe. She could hide from the world in Mamá’s arms and she did, burrowing her head into the plump, soft meat of her neck and clutching the back of her faded homespun dress.

            “Mamá,” she cried, her voice muffled. She had run out of tears, but the lump in her throat remained and she let herself melt into the embrace, utterly exhausted.

            “I know it’s frightening, _mija_.” Mamá petted her hair in a soothing motion, rocking her gently as though she were only six and not sixteen. “But you _are_ ready. I’ve taught you everything I can about how to make a good wife. You can cook and clean, take care of a farm, you can sew and sing, and you know your way around children… anyone in St. Cecilia would be _honored_ to have a wife like you.”

            “But I… I’m….”

            “You are our strong, proud, beautiful Imelda. We are not asking you to change completely; such a thing would be impossible.” She pulled her back, running her fingers over her red cheeks before kissing her forehead. “We love you just the way your are. Now, we must find you someone who will do the same as your husband.”

            “They really don’t like me, Mamá.” Her eyebrows rose in false surprise.

            “Why, Héctor likes you!” she protested lightly. “And who knows? He may not be the one for you. But if you show them nothing but anger and resentment, that is all you’ll ever get in return. They’ll never know the _angelita florecita_ that you are deep down,” she cooed, pinching her cheeks.

            “ _Ugh_!” She waved off the assault, rubbing her face. “But what if they still don’t—”

            “¿ _Qué_? If they still don’t like you? _Uff_! What good are they, if they don’t know such a good thing when they’re looking at it!?” She made a face, waving the pretend suitors away. “If they can’t see they hold the most precious woman in all of Mexico’s hand, then they are not worth your time! I’ll send your papá and your brothers to beat them across the head until they see clearly!” Her chest puffed up with motherly indignation.

            “!” She couldn’t help but start to chuckle at the thought of the men all in a row, taking turns and knocking some poor fool across the head for daring to insult her. The sound made her mother smile. She picked up her hands, kissing them.

            “Just think about it. Give them a chance.” She gave the slender fingers another kiss. “I know you will make the right choice. For your family.”

            “I understand.” She gently tugged her hands away, folding them in her lap. “Was Papá very angry with me?” she asked, almost timidly.

            “ _No te preocupes_. I’ve taken care of that.” Imelda looked up in surprise.

“What?” Her mother laughed, mouth twisting wryly.

 “You think I can’t take care of your father? _Who_ did you think you got that temper from?” She laughed again, and suddenly Imelda thought of her childhood, her mother haggling with the grocer and the butcher, physically pulling her and the twins apart and boxing their ears when they complained, the fiery glint in her eye kindling when someone other than her husband tried to coerce her into doing anything she didn’t want to do.

 _Perhaps Mamá does know what it means to sacrifice for family._ Imelda felt as if she saw her mother for the first time, as a fellow woman and not just the person who dictated orders to the house.

“My goodness.” Mamá wiped her eyes, standing up and fixing the front of her dress. “That’s enough talk for one night, I think.” She patted her daughter’s head, then her cheek, then chucked her chin lightly. “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

“Yes, Mamá.”

“Goodnight, _mija_.”

“Goodnight.” She waited until her mother shut the door before letting out a long breath. _Mamá_ … _Papá_ …. She was lucky they weren’t angrier with her. At least her mother seemed to understand, to an extent. But they weren’t her. Things were different in their time. This was the 20th century, after all.

 _Thump_. _Thump-bump-smack_. She jumped in her place on the bed, staring across the room to the wall that separated her bedroom from the boys. She heard muffled speech, and shook her head in exasperation. Leave it to them to wake up and decide to have a wrestling match in the middle of the night. By the sounds of it, they were bouncing off the very walls! She stood up, fluffing out her long nightgown before stomping over and knocking as loudly as she dared. The last thing she needed was Papá thinking that _she’d_ been making the noises.

“Oscar! Felipe!” she whispered, her cheek pressed against the wall. “Keep it down!” There was no answer, though she knew the walls were thin enough that they heard her warning knock, if nothing else.

 _Thwack! Thump-smack-bump_!

“Hey! You dummies!” she growled as she knocked again. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble here!” There was a louder thump as well as a muffled curse.

She froze.

That was _not_ from the twins’ room.

That sounded like… it came from…. She turned her eyes to the window, covered by the thick, beautiful curtains her mother had made for her last birthday. For a moment she was motionless; her mind told her that there was no way anyone could be outside her bedroom. It was on the second floor, far out of reach of the courtyard. But she heard what she heard, and that voice had _not_ been Oscar, or Felipe, or Papá or _any_ of his workers.

She stood against the wall and considered her options, cheek still pressed against the cool plaster. She could scream, which would bring her family. That was probably the _best_ thing to do, since Papá could easily deal with any intruder. Or she could run to her parent’s bedroom, and get them that way. That would keep the twins out of danger, but it would give whoever was out there more time to get in. _Or_ she could go open the window herself, just to see if anyone was out there. There was the slimmest chance that it could have been her imagination. She would feel like a fool if she raised the alarm just to be startled by something that could easily be explained away.

 _You should call for Papá._ She half-crawled to the door, picking up one of her shoes by the laces. _You should call for Papá._ She crept to the window, ready to bludgeon whatever—whoever—she found outside. _You should call for Papá._ She reached the curtains, her breath catching in her throat, limbs cold and pulse pounding in her ears. _You should **really** call for Papá! _

She emptied her lungs in a low _whoosh_ , fingers tightening in the curtain. She was not afraid. Well, she was, but she was also very brave, very fast, and very loud. She would be screaming before the intruder knew what was happening, and with any luck she could knock him down to the first story with her shoe.

“¡ _Oye_!” It was a pathetic battle cry, but she was too caught up in the moment to care. She flung open the curtains and casement in two quick movements, brandishing the shoe over her head as she prepared to strike.

She gasped.

He gasped, too.

She slammed the casement closed, dropping her shoe as she grabbed the curtains and held them shut behind her back. She found herself drenched in a cold sweat, trembling with combined nerves and general shock. Her heart beat frantically against her ribcage, and she caught sight of herself in the mirror: hair tumbling around her shoulders, lips parted in a silent scream and eyes wider than an owl’s.

 _Peck. Peck, peck._ It sounded like a little bird, tapping at the window. She managed to swallow, her throat tight, and waited until she got her breathing under control before turning back and reopening the curtains. She stared down at the face in her window, timid and flushed as he continued to peck on the glass with one nail. She felt her fear bubble into fury, and considered picking up her shoe before deciding that it would probably kill him to fall from this height. She didn’t want that on her conscious.

“¿¡ _Estas loco_!?” she hissed, opening the casement once more. “Why are you here? Wh-wait, what are you _standing_ on?” Curiosity got the better of her and she leaned her head out the window, seeing wobbling legs barely hanging onto her mother’s trellis of prized roses.

“ _H_ - _hola_ , Imelda…” He at least had the decency to look sheepish. “I—uh, can I come in?”

“No?!” She crowded him, hands on the windowsill so that he couldn’t get a grip. “Go away, _Héctor_!” She dared not speak above a whisper, now. “What are you even doing here?!” He made a sound in his throat, arms pinwheeling as he tumbled backwards. She choked back a shout as he managed to grab onto the outer casement, steadying himself before answering.

“I had to see you.”

“What?! You couldn’t see me tomorrow!?”

“Tomorrow would have been too late!” he explained urgently, eyes imploring her to give him a break. She took two steps back from the sill, letting him get a better grip without allowing him entry into her private space. She crossed her arms, giving him her best glower. _I don’t think Mamá would disapprove right **now** if I was rude to him._

“Why? You were already here once today.”

“And you weren’t,” he replied flippantly, using his elbow to help him cling to the window. _That’s because I was avoiding you_! She didn’t say her thoughts aloud, biting her tongue to keep the peace. If Papá found her with a boy in her room—even if they were trying to get her married—there would be hell to pay. Not to mention _he_ would be reaching the end of his natural life faster than he could jump off the trellis and make a quick getaway.

“I wasn’t,” she agreed coldly. “I was at the river.”

“You, ah, you like the water?” he asked, leaning conversationally on the sill as if it were a counter at the general store.

“I—we were picking flowers.” Why was she telling him this? Why was she humoring him, instead of just shutting the window and waiting until he gave up and went away?

“What is your favorite flower?”

“My—what?”

“Your favorite flower?” he repeated eagerly. “I… I could get you some, I mean.”

“I can get them myself.” His forehead wrinkled and he twisted his mouth in subtle frustration. “ _What_ did you have to tell me that was so important? I’m waiting, _payaso_.”

“Tell? No, no, I wanted to _ask_ you.” He grunted, lifting himself up higher until he rested most of his body on the windowsill. She knelt down, to glare at him easier. _Ay, stupid_ _Héctor_. He wasn’t helping his case any.

“Ask me what?”

“Um, you see—they are having a dance, tomorrow at the plaza. And I thought—that is,” he rambled, chewing on his lip as he looked everywhere _except_ her, “What I mean is, I saw you the other day. When the band was playing? You danced very well with your friends. I mean, I wasn’t _staring_ ; I just happened to notice, and… er…. Well, I thought to myself ‘she must like to dance!’ because you did it so well, and I _also_ like to dance, and I thought maybe you’d like to go dancing. With me. Together.”

“And you thought the middle of the night would be a good time to ask?” she answered bluntly with a question of her own.

“I came earlier! You weren’t here, and… I mean, tomorrow you’d be—I thought that if I could catch you at night, when you weren’t—” He stopped stammering, grunting as he ran a hand through his hair. “You know what? The more I think about it, this wasn’t a very good plan.”

“You think so?” He narrowed his eyes at her, mouth set in a thin line, and she couldn’t stop herself from laughing at him. _I’ve never actually talked to him before, have I?_ Normally it was just her scowling at him across the plaza, with her friends teasing that he’d been staring at her all afternoon. She usually found some excuse to duck around and avoid him once he actually started her direction. _He’s actually a little funny._

“I’m just going to go.” He backed out of the window, watching his feet to make sure he didn’t fall climbing down.

“Wait.” He stopped, chin resting on the sill before he blindly crawled back up the trellis. She paused, tilting her head as she looked him over. The more she saw him up close, the more she…. Perhaps he wasn’t _quite_ as ugly as she let herself believe.

Sure, his nose and ears _were_ big, but they made him look boyish. And his hair seemed soft, not oily like the other boys who greased theirs back. He _did_ have wide eyes, but they were surrounded by a fringe of cute, dark lashes. That crooked smile… now that he wasn’t across the plaza she could see that it gave him dimples, which made it all the more charming. And if his chin was pointed, well—no one was perfect.

“Why do you want to take _me_?” she asked, shaking the thoughts out of her head. _Since when is this tonto **cute**_?

“I like you!” he insisted, leaning his elbows on the sill.

“Like—what do you know about me!?” she sputtered, flushing. They had never exchanged words before tonight; how could he like her if he didn’t know anything about her?

“Your name is Imelda, you have twin brothers, you like to dance, you’re very feisty and you’ve hit every man in town except for me.”

“That can be fixed!” She groped around halfheartedly for her shoe, cheeks burning. He grinned that crooked grin.

“You enjoy _buñuelos_ , your forehead wrinkles when you laugh, you like the color purple, and sometimes you sing, if you think no one can hear you.”

“Y-you’d only know those things if you were spying on me all the time!” He leaned his chin on one hand.

“It’s not spying if you see me,” he pointed out. “You frown at me almost every day.”

“I—” He had a point. “ _Humph_! Who cares, anyway? Just because you know _a few_ things doesn’t mean you know _everything_.”

“I’d learn more if you’d come dancing with me.” She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“You really want me to come?” she muttered.

“Yes. I asked you, didn’t I?”

“You’re not just doing this to laugh at me, are you?”

“No! Never!” He scowled at her. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I’ve hit every man in town except for you,” she retorted. “You could be setting me up for a mean joke.”

“I wouldn’t _ever_.” He leaned over the sill, still frowning. “Do you hate me?”

“I—no.” The truth stumbled out of her before she could even think.

“Then why do act like you hate me?” She opened her mouth, but was unable to think of a proper answer. “Is it so hard to believe that someone likes you?” _I don’t know._

“You’re really serious? This isn’t some prank?”

“I’m serious.” They gazed at each other silently, one intense, the other calculating.

“Close your eyes.” She couldn’t think straight with him staring at her like that. He blinked and obeyed, scrunching his eyes shut before peeking. “Héctor!” He squeezed them even tighter, nose wrinkling. She ran a hand through her hair, just now noticing that she was in no way presentable to be seen with a man. She was in her nightclothes, for goodness’s sake!

She looked at him again, his face crinkling and smoothing as he waited. He really was stubborn, wasn’t he? And earnest… she couldn’t help but believe him when he said he was serious. But why her? Just saying ‘I like you’ wasn’t enough… was it? She took a deep breath, biting her lip as she searched for something to say. Going to a dance would just make her mother over ecstatic, and she didn’t really want to be seen in front of the town with _Héctor_ of all people. They would start to assume, and then what?

She leaned towards him, resting her weight on her knees as she stared at his eyelashes, resting so neatly against his cheeks. _Give them a chance. For your family._ Was she willing to give Héctor a chance? He wasn’t _horrid_ , not like some of the men. And he could be funny—or, at least, his expressions could. But _how_ was she supposed to know if he could make her happy enough to want to marry? _I guess… that’s what the dancing is for._

Their noses touched and he opened one eye, immediately leaning back as a little breath of surprise escaped; she felt it on her lips.

“Oh.” She cleared her throat, awash with embarrassment from her hair to her toes. _Just what do you think you’re doing?_ She asked herself sternly, the inner voice sounding suspiciously like her mother. He watched her quietly, letting her fidget before offering a shy smile and leaning back in, tilting his head in invitation.

Her first ever kiss had been with Francisco Aquino—or rather, he’d kissed her before she knew what was happening. It had taken her by surprise, and it had been disgusting. He’d deserved that black eye, her friends had agreed. _What man_ , said Lucía, _kisses like a fish_? They had laughed about it, days later, and she hadn’t kissed anyone outside of her family since.

Thankfully, Héctor did not kiss like a fish.

His lips were warm and hesitant, very carefully pressing against hers. He didn’t try to crush her to him or slobber all over her; in fact, the only part of them that touched was their mouths. She had been too shocked to close her eyes with Francisco, but she kept them closed now, focusing on the soft way his lips moved over hers before she pulled back.

“Imelda…” No one had ever said her name that way before, voice raspy and thick. It sent a thrill straight through her, a funny tingle spreading from her lips all the way to her stomach, burning her from the inside out. She opened her eyes and found his still closed, mouth slightly open and white-knuckled hands gripping the windowsill.

“Héctor?” Her own voice surprised her, small and breathless. He finally opened his eyes, everything from his the tips of his ears to his nose darkening in a blush.

“Will you dance with me?” he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

“I… yes.”  He nodded, tongue darting out over his lips. She followed the movement with her eyes, and before she knew it he was leaning back in for a second kiss. _I ought to hit him; he’s taking too many liberties_ , she thought hazily, but found to her surprise that she didn’t really care.

“ _Oooh_ … Eww!” They flew apart, blinking at each other before turning together towards the source of the sound. She felt her face heat again, this time in anger, at the sight of the twins propped up in the window. _How long have they been there?!_ Now that they were noticed, they began to do what they did best: “Imelda kissed Héctor! Imelda kissed Héctor!”

“Oscar! Felipe!” She forgot to be quiet, grabbing her shoe and climbing over Héctor to get a good aim. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“ _Oigan, chamacos_ ,” Héctor began sternly, furrowing his brow. He leaned back to look at them better. “I think—” There was a loud cracking sound, along with a shout from Imelda as he dropped a few feet.

“ _I_ think you’re falling!” Oscar and Felipe said together, pointing at the trellis.

“Imelda?” Her mother knocked on the bedroom door. “Imelda, what’s wrong? I heard you cry out, _mija._ ” Héctor looked at her in shock, his mouth hanging open as he slipped out of sight.

“ _Héctor_!”

“Imelda?!” Her mother opened the door, privacy forgotten as her daughter screamed again. “Who—” Papá appeared behind her, taking one look at the situation before his eyes blazed and he took off in a dead run.

“Mamá!”

“Mamá?” the twins parroted, sliding back through their window to better see what was going on inside the house.

“ _Juan, wait_!” Caught between her husband and her daughter, she took the more volatile of two paths and went running after him. Imelda looked back over to see the trellis jutting from the wall, the thin wooden rails unable to hold Héctor’s weight any more. There was the patter of bare feet and then the twins shouldered their way under her torso, Oscar on the left and Felipe on the right.

“Try to grab the trellis,” she ordered, and they obediently leaned out as far as they dared. Just when their long, thin fingers seemed to reach it, there was an even louder crack as it split in two. Héctor shouted unintelligibly as he fell back, scrambling like a lizard to stay on top of the swaying structure. _I find a man I can tolerate, and he breaks his head open. Just my luck._ He slipped, and Imelda covered her eyes, not wanting to see the mess to follow.

“His pants!” Felipe hooted, pointing and tugging at her nightgown. She peered through her fingers to see that his loose pants had caught in the broken trellis, leaving him hanging a safe jumping distance above the ground. She sighed in relief, only to hold her breath again as she heard her mother in the distance.

“Juan, stop! Let’s at least get the boy down!”

“Where’s my shoehorn!?” Her mother ran around the side of the house faster than Imelda had ever seen her run. Then, several things seemed to happen at once. Mamá grabbed Héctor by his suspenders, yanking him with all her might, Imelda nearly fell out of the window as she pushed on the trellis, snapping it under her hands as the twins grabbed one leg each and held on for dear life, Papá appeared around the corner, a lantern in one hand and his metal shoehorn in the other.

Héctor slipped off the end of the trellis, tumbling down into the garden and trampling it as he stumbled to his feet. He offered a nervous smile to Mamá, who gave him two quick slaps on each cheek, hard enough to make his eyes roll, before pushing him in the direction of the gate.

“Hey, _payaso_!” Imelda called, unable to stop from laughing at the absurdity of it all. After all, she’d just kissed a boy—almost twice—she was hanging by her legs out of her own bedroom window in the middle of the night, her mother had just let the same boy off scot-free because they were all afraid that  Papá might beat his brains out. _Héctor Rivera, tragically murdered with a shoehorn while trying to score a date to a dance_ —she could see the headlines now. “You’d better run!” She heard the twins laughing behind her, her humor catching, and she saw Héctor wave before clearing the back gate in one leap.

“ _Oye_ , you blasted—!” There was a clanging crash of metal on metal as the shoehorn hit the gate. “Stay away from my daughter!” Mamá was holding out her hands to the trellis, shaking her head as she made wordless sounds of dismay. Finally she looked up, wringing her hands.

“ _Dios mío_ , Imelda! This is _not_ what I meant!”

* * *

 

“…Mamá…” Imelda turned over, wiping at her eye sockets as she woke. She opened her eyes to see a splash of fading purple, and it took her a full minute to recall where she was. Part of her still expected to be in the bedroom of her youth, waking up to Papá ranting about Héctor.

She couldn’t help but smile now at the memory. Mamá had smoothed things over, and aside from a stern talking-to about letting boys up to her windows, nothing had come of it. Looking back, they were probably just relieved that she’d not beaten him down the trellis herself.

She reached out and touched the soft, dying petal. _I need to get some water for them._

_What is your favorite flower?_

_He was such a child back then._ She pulled her feet out from beneath the blanket and stretched, bones cracking.

_Then again, so was I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a wee discrepancy between the twin’s story and what Imelda remembers. To be fair, it was an exciting night, and they’ve matured enough to know that their sister probably didn’t want them blabbing about her kissing Héctor to the whole family. Either they didn’t remember it right or they kept it to themselves. You choose. 
> 
> I also hope I wasn’t too forward with Imelda’s character. She is only sixteen here, and that’s still quite young. It also talks in the novelization about how she’s as stubborn as Miguel, and it got me thinking about how she, too, probably didn’t care much about the whole ‘family before everyone else’, especially since she’s a very independent woman and she probably had to deal with that whole ‘ladies in the house, men in the street’ deal from her parents. It’s going to be interesting to document how her ideals change in the story… :3c


	5. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey kid, wanna buy some angst?

            The astute Victoria was the first to notice.

            “Mamá Imelda?” Holding her glasses steady, she peered at the Rivera matriarch over their thin frames. Everyone stopped their morning preparations, turning to look at Imelda as she entered the room. She passed by the workbench with her head held high, her expression both dignified and expectant. “Something’s… _different_ about you this morning.”

            “I’m not sure what you mean.” Imelda took her apron from its designated peg, draping it around her pelvic bones and cinching her dress. Victoria crept nearer, finger tapping her chin as she tiptoed around her grandmother. One good look and she snapped her fingers, immediately pinpointing the miniscule change.

            “I got it; it’s the flowers.” Rosita perked up at the mere mention of flowers.

            “Oh! Let me see!” Imelda stood silently, jaw working, before she obediently turned her head. “What a lovely color!” she gushed. “They match your ribbon almost exactly!”

            “I know.” She carefully patted the petals, tucked strategically in the rolls of her elaborate coif. She allowed them one last look before hurrying to the tool cabinet, opening the first drawer and rifling through its contents noisily. Victoria turned to her family at the workbench, looking at each of them in turn; they all saw the unasked question in her eyes and shook their heads. _No, it wasn’t **me**_. “Has anyone seen my good paper?” Imelda asked, too busy with her search to catch the silent conversation.

            “For tracing?”

            “ _No_ , for papering the front walk. Of course for tracing!” She slammed the first drawer shut, moving to the next with a huff. “I know I put an open pack here last month.” They all murmured denials and she yanked the drawer out of the cabinet, peering furtively into the empty space.

            “Where did they come from?” Victoria picked up her needle, hand hovering over the box of multicolored threads. Her eyes never left the flowers, a wry smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

            “The paper? Speak up,” Imelda grunted, fighting with the drawer before shoving it back into the cabinet with a resounding thud.

            “The flowers.” She stopped digging in the third drawer, standing motionless before slowly turning around to face them, a blunt chisel in her hand. She ran her thumb over the dulled edge, bone scratching against the metal.

            “What a silly question.” She kept her voice level, even as her eyes sparked. “They came from outside.” Rosita looked between the two of them before frowning in confusion.

           “Mamá Imelda, I don’t _have_ laelieas in my garden,” she corrected timidly, holding her notebook to her chest. She absently went to lick her pen, sighing as she remembered—for the umpteenth time—that she had no tongue. She settled with running the tip nervously between her teeth.

            “ _Dios mío_ , the outside stops at our garden now?” She scowled at the chisel before tossing it back in the drawer. “There is a city beyond our door, isn’t there?” Victoria’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, arms crossing.

            “No one left the house yesterday.” She watched as Imelda continued to dig in the drawers, growing increasingly irritated. “And _certainly_ no one brought flowers, or we’d have seen them.” The twins shared a smile behind Imelda’s back, mouthing one word together. As if sensing their smugness, she whirled around with her hands on her hips.

            “¿ _Pasa algo_?” Oscar asked innocently, hands in his lap as he smiled his gentle smile.

            “You still can’t find any paper?” Felipe added, his hammer tapping a soft, clinking rhythm against the workbench. She glared at all of them, even the silent Julio, before giving up on the cabinet drawers. When no one said anything else, she turned to sort through the clutter that had been accumulating for months on the table beside the polishing machine.

            “I’m starting to believe that they were a _gift_.” Victoria sounded more and more like a mother herself, finger tapping incessantly against her folded arms as she waited for an answer.

            “What nonsense!” Imelda yanked Julio’s Sunday hat from the middle of the half-ruined mountain of junk; she stared in disapproval at the squashed object before shaking her head. “You know I don’t accept gifts.”  

            “Unless it’s your birthday,” Rosita corrected.

            “Or _Día de Los Reyes_ ,” Julio added. She let out an indignant breath through her nose, handing him his hat. He looked at it sadly, trying to fix the warped brim.

            “I don’t accept gifts _except on special occasions_ ,” she corrected stiffly. “And since it is not….” She left the sentence unfinished, turning back to the pile.

            “They were a favor, then.” Imelda gaped at her, eyes wide in shock. Victoria tilted her head knowingly. “¿ _No es una prenda de amor_?”

            “You’ve been reading too many of those books!” She hunched over the pile, hurriedly separating more of the junk into smaller piles to pick through later. “As if—who would even—like you said, no one came yesterday!” She pointed one of the twins’ half finished shoes in her direction, shaking it threateningly. “You were all so worried because Héctor didn’t show his face, and yet he gives me flowers? Ha! It’s impossible.”

            “ _I_ never said anything about Héctor,” Victoria replied with a smirk. “But that’s suspicious… why did _you_ think of him, Mamá Imelda?”

            “Oh!” Rosita squeaked, hand flying up to press against her lips. She elbowed her brother, wiggling excitedly and smudging the ink on the accounts payable list.

            “And who else would be giving them to me?” she scoffed, waving her accusations away. “Implications, implications… your head is in the clouds, young lady!” She stopped what she was doing, crossing her arms and taking a deep, centering breath. “A Rivera is not swayed by something as paltry as a _flower_.”

            “I don’t know,” Julio spoke up for the first time, running laces through the eyelets he’d been busily making. “Coco seemed to like it when I gave her flowers.”

            “You tricked my daughter into _dancing_ until she was too enamored to know herself.” Imelda held out a warning finger. “You’re lucky you were so talented a man, or else Pepita would have escorted you from Mariachi plaza with her claws in your throat.” Julio said nothing, but his skull sank into the front of his shirt to hide his (long gone) neck.

            “Didn’t she dance with Héctor on _their_ first date?” Felipe whispered to his brother, who shrugged one shoulder.

            “It’s my fault, for not warning Coco about the dangers of men and their… wiles.” Imelda spoke more to herself than to them, still scrounging around for even a scrap of tracing paper.

“She was my innocent little angel, easily led astray by that blasted _music_. And who taught her that? _Who_ taught her to dance and sing? Pah! As if there were no bills to pay, no chores to do! Going off to God-knows-where and living out of a guitar case like _un vagabundo_ ; only writing once a month, if at all, never paying any mind to…. ” She trailed off into silence, fingers tracing the edge of a torn receipt as she stared out the window, her mind lost in the past. “And then to find out… all this time, he’d been….”

            “Mamá Imelda?” She didn’t seem to hear them. She crumpled the receipt in her fist, head drooping as she took a shaky breath.

            “Imelda?” Oscar tried, leaving his workstation to go over to her. Felipe followed on his heels. “¿ _Hermana_?” He reached out and tentatively touched her shoulder; she nearly jumped out of her shoes, gasping loudly.

            “I… we must be out of the paper,” she said breathlessly. “I can’t seem to find any.” Oscar nodded, and she looked at them before clearing her throat, patting her coif and tucking a stray hair back into the twist. “It’s market day, anyway. I’ll just go buy more.” She brushed his hand off her shoulder, squeezing it before letting it fall and taking her basket from the top of one of the piles. “I’ll be a while.”

            “Yes.” The twins shared a look before stepping back, clearing a path to the door.

            “We’ll manage,” Rosita said. “Take your time.”       

            “If you can find me some blue thread, Mamá—” Victoria began, letting the flower issue drop.

            “ _Sí_ , and some more of that rubber cement?” Julio added hopefully.

            “I’ll—I’ll try to remember when I’m there.” She passed a hand over her face, rubbing her eye sockets before offering them a tight, wooden smile. “I’ll be back before supper.”

            “ _Adiós_ , be careful!”  They waved as she left, leaving the door open behind her to signal the start of the workday. Their hands dropped as she passed the gate, and they all looked solemnly at each other over the workbench.

            “If I’d known she’d take it that way, I’d never have asked,” Victoria admitted guiltily. “She seemed… depressed.”

            “Ay, how could you have known?” Rosita said, reaching across the table to pat her hand comfortingly. “She’s never been so before.”

            “At least… not where we could see.”

* * *

            Héctor hummed a jaunty little tune as he strummed his guitar, tuning it by measures until it sang right along with him. His foot kept time in the air, dangling above the heads of shoppers at the _tianguis_. He was a normal fixture whether it was market day or not, having grown used to sitting up out of sight. There was nothing like a high perch to people watch from, and his favorite wall had served him well as a bed, chair, high ground, means of escape—whatever he needed.

Right now, it was a comfortable lounge, his spine propped against the bricks of the neighborhood bar and the sun warming his bones overhead.  He was warm, playing music, he had a little change in his pocket and no one was throwing anything at him: creature comforts, even if he _was_ dead.

“Héctor!” A strong hand grabbed his ankle, yanking three times in quick succession before letting go. He stopped mid-strum, peering over the edge to see an owlish pair of bifocals and blue-rinsed hair pulled into a high bun.

“Hey hey! Abuelita!” He whistled appreciatively, setting the guitar against the scratchy bricks and tipping his hat to the tiny old woman. He swung his other leg over the edge of the wall, resting his elbows on his knees as he bent down to get a better look at her. “Any _memelas_ for your favorite starving artist?”

“No.” She waited until his face fell before winking. “But for you? Always.”

“Oh! You’re killing me!” he gasped dramatically, unhinging one elbow so that he could use his arm as a makeshift extender. “You mean I’m _not_ your favorite?” She handed him a piping hot _memela_ and he hoisted it up, screwing his arm back on.

“You’re not _starving_. Not anymore, at least.” She eyed his whitened bones with a buoyant smile. “Someone’s finally started to remember you, eh? ¡ _Por fin_!” He puffed out his chest, proudly showing off his mended ribcage. “Now you just need some new clothes. I was getting worried about you,” she tsked in a true grandmotherly fashion.

“Now, now.” He took a bite, groaning in satisfaction as the delicious torrent of flavor hit him. He continued to mumble with his mouth half full, kicking his feet carelessly against the wall as he spoke. “I told you not to worry about old Héctor.” He swallowed audibly, winking the tears from his eyes as the hot food managed to burn an esophagus that technically wasn’t there. “I got by, didn’t I? I’m still here.”

“ _That_ was getting by?” she cackled, slapping his tibia. “You were more dead than alive! The only way you managed to scrape by was _sheer luck_.”

“I think you mean intuition and charm.” He licked his fingers, sucking the last of the tasty snack from his bones before wiping them on his ragged pants. “I lived on charitable acts of kindness.”

“You lived on _pity_!”

“That’s what I said, no?” He leapt to his feet, waving a hand over the teeming crowds forcing their way between the aisles of tented stalls and outspread blankets. “It’s a cruel world out there when you’re being Forgotten.” He sighed dramatically, whipping his hat off his head in a gesture of respect. “You wouldn’t know; you still have living family.”

“A living—ha!” She laughed hard enough that the heavy bifocals slipped off her skull, frames rattling on the cobblestones. “My _customers_ are the ones who remember me! I don’t think that no-good son of mine has put my photo on the _ofrenda_ once! I haven’t checked, either,” she added honestly, with a careless shrug.

“Ay, Abuelita!” He clicked his tongue reprovingly, but she only laughed again and patted his leg, this time fondly.

“My customers are my family, both the living and the dead. Why do you think I am _Abuelita_? You, them….” She motioned to the people walking between the stalls, laughing and chatting as they carried their purchases. “You are all my _nietos_. I feed you the recipes my mamá taught me, and you tell me your stories in return. That is all I ever wanted. I am content.” She paused a moment. “Speaking of which, you’ve never told me _your_ story.”

“Of course I haven’t. I don’t want you to cry,” he said smoothly, offering his most charming smile.

“Or do you not want to remember?” she replied just as easily, her eyes twinkling. He opened his mouth, closed it, and rubbed his chin as he looked idly over the crowd.

“Well….” He faltered, mouth slackening; he straightened his spine, stretching as tall as he could go before shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. The—magic? memory?—that held his bones together protested as his vertebrae stretched out, making itself known in the form of a dull, warning ache. He ignored it for the moment; he’d been scattered across the floor enough to know how to pull himself back together. He had more important things to worry about. “Is it?” he muttered, scanning the crowd at a frenzied pace.

“What? Do you see something?” _No, no, no, no—there_! He’d thought it might have been his imagination, but standing before a textiles stall was a woman in a familiar dress. He might have passed it off as anyone else, had the back of her head not been turned towards him. He knew that hairstyle anywhere, and… his heart quickened at the sight of purple laelieas, tucked into the rolls.

“It is her!” 

“It’s _who_ , Héctor?” She tried to scan the crowd as well, but to no avail.

“Imelda,” he breathed, plopping down on the wall and letting his legs dangle again. _Do I go to her? Will she pretend not to know me? What do I do?_

“Who?” She began prodding at his fibulas, tickling him until he kicked out reflexively. He looked down, remembering that he’d been talking to Abuelita until _she’d_ caught his eye.

“My wife,” he answered simply. He could have said ‘my twin’, and the old lady wouldn’t have been more surprised.

“Wi— ¡¿ _Tienes una esposa_?!” she gaped, jaw nearly coming clean off. She managed to grab hold at the last second, jamming it back into place. “You never told me you had a wife!”

“Yes, my… Imelda.” His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly, feeling the fluttering all over his bones now. _She wore the flowers… I never expected… ay, mi amor...!_ He found that he was grinning like a fool; he wanted to hug himself and fall backwards off the wall, giddy like a schoolboy feeling his first crush all over again.

“What are you then, a deadbeat?” Her blunt words brought him back to the moment and he blinked stupidly at her, trying to comprehend her meaning.

“Eh?”

“If you have a family in this land, why on earth are you running around Shantytown being forgotten? Didn’t they put up your photo?” she asked, with the astonishing lack of tact that all old women seem to possess. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh… you see, we—er, that is, I—um, she—” He mumbled and fidgeted, wracking his brain for a way to explain his situation without making him out to be a _complete_ waste of space. Unfortunately for him, Abuelita was a little too sharp to be fooled.

“Ah, you messed things up,” she nodded, understanding the situation perfectly.

“We hit a _teensy_ rough patch,” he grimaced, scratching at his skull as he held his thumb and forefinger together. “And then, y’know… I died.”

“That sounds about right.” Abuelita shook her head, cleaning her glasses before settling them back on her face. “Your type of luck is the worst kind, Héctor. What on earth did you do? Did someone point scissors at you?” she demanded. “Do you get out of bed with your left foot first?”

“No!” He looked back at the crowd, making sure he didn’t lose her. _Where…_ there, at the grocers. She was squeezing the fruit, arguing with the shopkeeper about the price of oranges. _That’s my Imelda._ “I’m getting her back,” he mentioned quickly.

“Is that so?”

“Of course. I know I am.” He puffed out his chest once more, this time in a gaudy display of machismo. “One look at _the face_ and she’s putty in my hands.” ‘The face’ seemed to consist of a rather silly grin and a wink, gold tooth shining as he rolled his shoulder in what was _supposed_ to be a sexy manner. Abuelita stared up at him, unimpressed.

“¡ _Pobrecita_! From this far off, you can’t tell that she’s blind.”

“She’s not— _augh_!” He scowled at her. “I’ll have you know that I was the handsomest man in my hometown. She couldn’t keep her hands off me!”

“There must have been poor pickings… I feel sorry for _her_ , at any rate.”

“¡ _Cállate_!” He crossed his arms, nose stuck in the air. He pulled his legs up out of her reach, crossing them as he balanced on the wall.

“Alright then, _papí_. Don’t get so touchy about it.” She waved to him, thumbing the wall with her middle finger. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d be over there winning her back right now.” 

“I—” He gulped, looking back at the grocer stand before grabbing his guitar, slinging the strap over his head. “You’re right!” he shouted, getting back up to his feet. “Héctor Rivera is _not_ afraid of his wife!” Several of the nearest shoppers turned in his direction, looking up at him in confusion. A few of the women laughed and he cleared his throat before jumping down from the wall, pretending to not notice their amusement.

“Be careful, Romeo.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead affectionately, pushing his hat up so that it wouldn’t upset her bun. She pinched his jawbone in lieu of a cheek, offering a saucy wink. “I want to be introduced to this wife very soon, you understand?”

“Keep the _memelas_ warm, Abuelita.” He waved, walking backwards into the crowd and nearly tripping over a little girl with her mouth full of _raspado_. “You’ll see her before you know it!”

“I’ll count on it!” she called after him, shaking her head. “That boy…. What I wouldn’t give to have known him alive.”

* * *

If staring at her across a crowded plaza had been an Olympic sport, he would have been a shoe-in for the gold metal by now. He was a world-class professional at watching her from afar.

He’d perfected the art until it was _too_ easy now, worming his way carefully through the crowds without causing a big scene. It was easier now that he didn’t have to limp, had better control over his body to step around busy hagglers and between young couples, murmuring pardons as he kept his distance. He could circle the plaza for hours this way if he had to, staying incognito while still in plain sight. He looked at her over the heads of children and lone mothers, thinking of things to say to her once he gathered the courage to make himself known. A part of him chuckled at the familiarity of it, feeling nostalgic for his youth.

_“Héctor? Héctor! Are you even listening?!”_

_“Sí, sí: uno momento, Ernesto….”_

 Watching her between the moving bodies, peeking around stacked crates, ducking behind barrels and buildings, shimmying up the lamp posts and craning his neck for just _one more glimpse_ ; there was no use lying about it. He’d been on fire for her since day one.

And who could blame him?! She had been so beautiful, sitting at the edge of the plaza fountain with her friends, _rebozo_ draped gracefully over her shoulders or sometimes over her head, hiding her lovely hair from the world. She was so pristine and genteel, splitting _buñuelos_ with the other girls as they laughed and pretended to ignore the men watching them from the fringes, teasing whoever received the _most_ attention until that poor young woman was redder than the fullest rose.

His heart always jittered when she laughed loud enough for him to hear, the sound high and clear even over the loud rushing of the water in the fountain. Her eyes would twinkle and she’d cover her mouth with her tiny, pretty fingers, smooth forehead wrinkling in a way that was—to him at least—very cute. 

 _I wonder if I could make her laugh,_ he always found himself wondering as he watched, chin in his hands while he fawned over her like the lovelorn fool he was. _Perhaps if I sang something funny; yes, I’ll write her a song! She’ll laugh and she’ll want to talk to me, and then **I’ll** sit with her, and maybe she’ll let me hold her hand and kiss her and **oh**_ …. 

Ernesto was less than enthused by his behavior, even to the point of refusing to go to Mariachi plaza with him since they couldn’t get any work done while he was ‘making eyes’ at the meanest girl in town.

_You might as well give up on her. She’ll toss you over her head like a bull, amigo._

Ernesto never seemed to understand why he was okay with that, or any other awful scenario he tried to paint. Héctor knew, even back then, that he didn’t have the words to tell him in a way he _would_ understand.

_¡Escúchame! When we get famous, you can have any girl you want in all of_ _Mexico_ _!_

How could he explain that he didn’t _want_ any other girl?

Even before he’d dared to sneak into their courtyard and climb up to her window in the dead of night, he had known she was the only girl for him. Sure, they had never spoken to each other, but somehow he had felt it in his very bones that Imelda was not only the most beautiful woman in St. Cecelia, but in the whole of the world itself. He could _never_ be satisfied until he had her for his own.

And then when he came to get her for their first real dance together: her little smile as she stood by the dented back gate, her mother waving merrily to him from the doorway and her father glaring at him from his shed, the nervous sweat on his palms as he stumbled over his greetings, her eyes seeing right through him, down to his very core…. It had only cemented the notion.

Not to mention the kiss, on the first night she’d talked freely to him. She’d _kissed_ him—him! If he’d not been hanging onto that trellis for dear life he would have instantly melted into a quivering puddle, right there in the middle of her mamá’s garden.

How could he have ever even _started_ to explain that feeling? Especially to someone with a disposition like Ernesto’s?

Well, it didn’t matter now. Ernesto, that _cabrón_ — hopefully he was still stuck in that bell. If he ever saw him _out_ of it, there wouldn’t be much to stop him from jumping him again and pounding the life—death?—right out of him. That sad excuse for a man!  _He_ was the one that needed to be fading, feeling the panic that comes with being forgotten by the living.

It would most likely never happen, since he’d live on in infamy, but… was it a just punishment to be stuck in a land where no one liked you anymore? If he managed to escape that bell, he wouldn’t have many friends—if any. Murder wasn’t tolerated well in the Land of the Dead. For someone like Ernesto, who thrived on popularity, it would be a personal hell. Quite fitting, for someone who’d poison their best friend.

He continued to circle the plaza, hands locked behind his back as he casually weeded through a maze of teenagers bunched around a food stall. To be fair, he’d probably _still_ melt into a puddle if she kissed him now, and he wasn’t even a kid anymore. Well, less melting and more bones-going-everywhere; he wasn’t as liable to fall apart now that he was remembered, but that didn’t seem to stop him from losing an arm or a leg now and again.

 _I’ve waited so long_ …. He shook his head, centering his thoughts and burying the bad sentiments. He’d had plenty of time to wallow in self-pity, drowning his woes with cheap booze and tears in Shantytown. His drinking friends were long gone now, and he was better: it was time to face reality and—well, a certain phrase came to mind, but it brought with it a shiver of disgust hard enough to rattle his ribcage.

 _Focus, Héctor, focus!_ He steeled himself, trying to remember how to give a proper mental pep talk. _Just think about what it’ll be like when she lets you hold her again and doesn’t shove you away; you can dance with her, or embrace her and let her lean against you, or kiss her while she acts shy when you call her all the little names you used to, it’ll be like you never let go of her that night—_

She noticed him.

She had always noticed him back then, too. She had a knack for looking up right when he was in some goofy stance, normally halfway through tripping over his own two feet, about as _not_ suave as a person could be and certainly not appealing to a young lady like her, not when there were muscled-up farmhands with glistening skin standing across the way. Her laugh would vanish, eyes losing their sparkle as she frowned at him, her forehead smoothing out and her expression icy cold.

Some things never changed.

Once upon a time, he would have waved bashfully at her with the hopes that she’d smile, or at least do something besides frown. But that was before he knew her, knew her habits and her personality, what worked and what didn’t. The minute their eyes locked he made a beeline for her, dodging carts and _bicicletas_ on the main thoroughfare as he called apologies over his shoulder, afraid to lose sight of her for even an instant. _You’re not getting away from me this time._

To her credit she didn’t try to run; she just stood there, one hand on her hip as she watched him approaching with an increasingly impatient scowl.

 _What do I even say to her?_ He was halfway there.

 _Do I just say hello? Do I mention last night?_ He jumped onto the fountain, using the stone guardrail as a shortcut around a dense pocket of shoppers.

 _Will she greet **me**?_ He was within shouting distance. She hadn’t moved.

 _Who cares? Now, say something, tonto!_ He stopped before her, raised a finger, took a breath, mouth opening, and—

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Her eyes rolled up to the sky, stared at it a good three seconds, and then went back to glaring at him.

“Héctor.” Why did she have to say his name so menacingly?! It was enough to make a skeleton worried for body parts he no longer possessed!

“ _Cariño_.” Any chance of a smile went straight out the window as her face fell into neutral dislike. “Can I carry something for you?” he asked, reaching for the bag of produce in her left hand. “Here, let me help—” She yanked it calmly out of his reach, her expression never changing.

“Are you stalking me?” He blinked in surprise; he hadn’t been expecting _that_ question.

“No?”

“Why are you _here_?”

“Is it a crime to visit the plaza on market day?”

“Were you planning to steal something?”

“No!” He frowned at her. Maybe he’d been poor enough to beg—poorer than his living years, anyway—but he had never stooped so low as to openly _steal_ … at least, not from people he couldn’t pay back later! “I was minding my own business when I saw you and thought I’d come say hello. That’s all.”

“… _Hello_.” She gathered her skirts and marched away, leaving him in the dust as the crowd parted for her. He was stunned enough that she got a good few paces in before he sprang after her, hat clutched to his head as he kicked up his heels. She said nothing as he caught up and matched her pace, trailing just behind her like a stray dog.

“I, uh… I see you liked my little present.”

“And I see _you_ fished your arm out.” He looked down at the offending limb, none the worse for wear after its little dip in the fountain.

“Yes, of course.” She was silent. “But, the flowers—they’re still your favorite, right? I had to guess, but I thought you… I mean, you _did_ love laelieas.”

“I like laelieas just fine, when they don’t come from _cowards_ , that is.” She increased her pace to a brisk trot, chin in the air.

“Huh?” He sped up just enough to walk abreast of her, peering anxiously at her face. She turned it just enough that their eyes didn’t meet, mouth pursed as she cut down a side alley without a word. He doubled back, jumping over a stack of cardboard boxes and slipping on an old tequila bottle before catching up again.

“Stop following me!” She spared him a sideways glance before outpacing him again, skirts swishing busily around her ankles.

“What do you mean _coward_?” he stammered, trying to keep up with her _and_ get his mind in order. She changed directions again, but he was ready this time and didn’t let any more space than necessary separate them. She was just as wily and stubborn as ever, but she seemed to forget that he was _used_ to her methods. As long as she didn’t think of calling for Pepita, he could match her on just about anything.

“You want to throw your bones through my window—nearly hitting me in the head, I might add—and you don’t even have the decency to show your face afterwards? What else can you call that but cowardly?!”

“I wouldn’t have hit you, _mi corazón_ ,” he assured her in a syrupy tone. “I’ve got good aim!” He had enough practice knocking on people’s windows over the years that he was a fairly decent marksman. “And we both know you’d have just tried to hit me with my own arm, if I _had_ shown up.” She didn’t answer that, but her mouth twitched. 

“You deserve to be hit! Cheap… _flowers_ ….” He opened his mouth to argue that they _weren’t_ cheap, not when you didn’t have much to start with, but realized that wasn’t what she’d meant.

“I thought you _liked_ flowers.” She stopped, turning on her heel so fast that he nearly ran into her. She pointed her finger in his face, hissing ferociously enough to rival her _alebrije._

“Don’t you dare toy with me, Héctor Rivera! I _know_ what you’re trying to do!” Now he was just stupefied. What was she accusing him of, exactly? Deceit? Being a good husband? _I think most wives would enjoy getting gifts,_ he grumbled to himself.

“And what is that?” He hadn’t kept his plans secret, other than asking the Riveras to not mention them. If she had figured it out, good for her! She couldn’t say he wasn’t trying to win her back at all.

“You’re trying to manipulate me!” She stomped her foot, inhaling sharply. “I won’t have any of it!”

“Manipulate!?” They were on another main street now, crossing an arcing bridge with the slums of Shantytown spread out below. He couldn’t keep his voice down, and he could see movement as the Forgotten looked up to check out the commotion. He continued to follow her, mind racing as he tried to comprehend her thought processes. “Who’s manipulating you!? Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true!” She veered onto a side street, and he was glad if only for the fact that there were less people to hear them arguing like—well, like the married couple they were.

“I’m trying to make things right!”

“They’re—you can’t.” She tightened the grip on her bag, boots clicking a rapid tempo. He reached for her arm, trying to slow her down, if not stop her completely. _I can’t let her get away, not again._ She twisted around, yanking her arm free with a swift, angry movement. “You cannot make things right, not now!”

“I’m just asking you to give me a chance!” _That_ stopped her. She stared oddly at him a moment, and then before he could react her bag was on the ground and she was reaching behind her head, yanking the flowers out of her hair. She crumpled them up in her hands, grabbing his wrist and squashing them between their palms before curling his fingers over the ruined petals and throwing it back at him.

“I gave you a chance years ago,” she croaked. “Look how I ended up! You can’t erase over fifty years of hurt in a week!” Her voice grew in pitch until it was loud enough to startle a flock of bird _alebrijes_ , their shrill calls echoing up and down the street.  

Again he was shocked speechless, a strange feeling spreading through him; it reminded him of when a cow kicked him as a boy, the pain somehow both hot and numbing as it ricocheted up from his stomach. 

“I’m not…” He managed to find his voice, hoarse though it was, and stumbled over his words as the sorrow began to ripple into anger—anger at himself, at Ernesto, even at her. He loomed over her, panting as the raw emotion stole his breath faster than exertion ever could. “I’m not trying to _erase_ anything!” he shouted, voice booming between the buildings.

“Then what do you call it?!” A pair of women started down the shortcut and, seeing them, backed off to take another route. He was past caring about what anyone thought of him, no longer concerned with making a scene or disturbing the peace. The world had ceased to exist past the street, and the two of them were its only inhabitants.

“I’m trying to stop it from happening _again_!” Her gasp sounded more like a sharp little cry to his ears, eyes widening as grief flashed clearly across her face. “You don’t think I didn’t hurt too?! Imelda…” He held his hands out to her, restraining his voice as much as he possibly could. “Imelda, _please_ —what must I do to make you believe me? What did I ever do to make you think that I had left for good?”

“You _left_.” She looked utterly lost, crossing her arms as she turned away. He closed his eyes, rubbing at his sockets as the decades-old frustration welled inside him.

“I thought we were over this.”

“We were _never_ over this.” He could hear the hurt in her voice, unable to hide in the presence of the one who had caused it. She might have been older than him when she died, but in the moment he saw her as he’d known her, young and beautiful and… wounded, by someone she had trusted. Vulnerable.

“Look, I told you—Ernesto, he—I thought—we were going to be—”He groaned, exasperation and helplessness overwhelming as he turned away, running his hands through his hair and upsetting his hat. He ground his teeth, the same tune that had played for months now rolling over and over in his mind.

  _Stupid, stupid! You were such a fool, you should have known how desperate he was, you should have **written** instead of trying to keep your homecoming a surprise, you should have thought things through, idiot! A damned fool! _

   “I don’t care!” she snapped, interrupting his mumblings. “You should have never left home!”

“You don’t think I _know_ that now?!” He turned back to her, ready to tear his hair out as the feelings churned in his gut, making him nauseous. “I know that; why did you think I wanted to come back? I didn’t need the fame, _Ernesto_ needed it! How was I supposed to know that he’d go so far as to steal from me?”

“Stole from you? _Stole_ from _you_!?” Her voice cracked, unshed tears burning along with the fury in her eyes. “He stole from your daughter! He stole from _me_!” She sucked in a breath, shoulders shaking as she fought to keep from crying. “And I was the one who let him have you.”

His mouth worked noiselessly, feeling as if he were choking, or being buried alive, or… or…. How could she even say something like that? As if she thought… as if she blamed… _no!_

“Imelda, this—”

“Just leave me alone.” She picked up her bag, and when she turned her eyes were dry, her face a mask.

“ _Imelda_ —” His instinct was to grab her, to gather her up and kiss every part of her he could, to crush her to his chest as if they could somehow merge together in one big pile of bones, to hold her and never let go, no matter how hard she railed against him in protest. But his fingers barely brushed her shoulder before she slapped them away, actually _hurting_ a little instead of her usual mild taps.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice was tight and frigid, her posture tensed. She didn’t look at him, eyes locked on the road just ahead. “Please.” He stepped back, guitar _twanging_ softly as it bumped against the wall. She passed by him, stepping on the flowers and grinding them with the heel of her boot as she turned the corner, heading towards her neighborhood.

He just stood there, like an idiot, breathing as his body alternated between bouts of numb shock and unbearable agony. Finally something seemed to click in his mind; he threw his hat on the ground, growling as he turned and punched the wall only to shout in despair as his hand fell apart, fingers scattering in every direction.

 He gathered them up without a word and slid down the wall to sit in the shadow of the building, rearranging his phalanges before his head drooped between his knees. The guitar seemed to weigh heavily on his back and he listlessly removed it, staring at the instrument before letting it drop to the ground beside him. He looked at the remains of the flowers, picking up one of the petals and rubbing it between his fingers until the bones were stained purple.

He stared at the wet color and thought, taking no heed to the sun as it set over the west, the shadows growing until they swallowed him whole.


	6. If You Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Imelda lies to herself.
> 
> Listening to OMD is optional.

“¡ _Hola_! _Bienvenido a_ —Oh! Welcome home, Mamá Imelda!”

Home? When had she come home? She remembered walking, but the roads she had taken were blurred. Her feet had worked on memory, carrying her back to the place where she could find peace and rest. She faintly recalled slowly winding up the hill, absently dodging passerby as she walked, but…. She hadn’t paid any attention to the walk home after—

“Mamá?” Julio’s wingtip clunked as it fell to the table, his squat frame twisting on the high stool as he stared at her. They _all_ stared, smiles faltering as she stood motionless in the doorway, clutching the groceries to her chest. Her knees trembled faintly, though they couldn’t see it beneath her skirts. “Mamá?!” He repeated in a louder voice, clearly concerned as he wiggled off the stool. In another moment they surrounded her, crowding her as they pulled her through the doorway with anxious hands.

“ _Mamá_!” 

“Quick, fetch a chair!”

“Imelda! _hermana_ , what’s wrong?”

“Does she look faint to you? Imelda, do you feel faint?”

“Get your hands off me!” she managed to croak, raising hers defensively and pushing Felipe until he was no longer half-draped across her lap. Victoria took the grocery sack from her, and Rosita shut the door with enough force to make everyone jump. Julio lifted her feet and held them helplessly, looking around for something to prop them on. Oscar squeezed her shoulders and she brushed him off, waving her hands as if shooing flies. “Get back, I said!” she demanded weakly.

“What happened?!” Felipe remained on one knee and looked her firmly in the eyes, talking sternly enough that for an instant she was reminded of their papá. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Rosita cooed, brushing the hair from her forehead with a worried expression. “Are you sick?”

“She can’t be sick; she’s _dead_.” Victoria looked up from where she was unpacking the groceries onto the workbench. “Did you see something that upset you?” she guessed as she continued to pull things from the sack; she inspected each purchase thoroughly, as if the mystery could be found on six oranges, three different shades of blue thread, and a jar of rubber cement.

“Tell us what happened,” Oscar urged. “Do you need us to get you something? Julio,” he snapped his fingers over Imelda’s shoulder. “A glass of water.” Julio gently sat her feet back on the ground and turned to go into the kitchen. 

“No, I’m fine. I don’t need any water.” She just wanted to _think_ , but it was impossible to do that with her family causing such a commotion around her. “I—” She rubbed her forehead with one hand, closing her eyes. “I’m… just tired.”

“Wait… Mamá?” Rosita reached into her hair, pulling out a single purple petal that had been caught beneath her ribbon. She looked at it in dismay. “¡ _Faltan las_ _flores_! ¿ _Las perdiste_?”

“What?” Victoria turned from the workbench, thread in one hand and an orange in the other. Her mouth fell open, the gears turning behind her narrowed eyes. “Mamá, you lost your flowers?”

“Of course I didn’t. I do not _lose_ things.” She felt some of her strength returning, and sat up in the chair. “I… I returned them.”

“What?!” Rosita dropped the petal, both hands clapping to her wide cheekbones. The twins shared a look over Imelda’s right shoulder, Oscar taking his position behind her back to full advantage as he pretended to knock his own head with the flat of his palm in frustration. Even Victoria was affected, turning on her heel so fast she nearly spun in a circle.

“You gave them back to Héctor, you mean,” she clarified in a tone of utmost seriousness. Imelda nodded sharply. “ _Ay_...”

 “Mamá Imelda! How _could_ you?” Rosita admonished. The petal fluttered to rest in her lap, blending in with the fabric of her purple dress until the two were indiscernible from each other. “That was very rude to do to Papá Héctor—”

“¡ _No digas eso_! Do _not_ call him that!” They leaned away from her, cowed into silence by the snarl in her voice. Rosita’s mouth worked noiselessly before she turned away, blinking rapidly as she busied herself with stacking the oranges on the table. “He is not—” She stopped herself before she spoke out of line, fingers steepled as she thought carefully about her next words. “It was a mistake to lead him on.”

“Mamá.” Victoria swallowed a sigh, jaw working. “You didn’t lead—”

“ _I said_ it was a mistake.” She found herself on her feet, brushing the petal from her skirt. “It was my mistake, letting him back in.”

“But—”

“He is better off forgotten. By me,” she clarified after a moment’s pause.

“ _But_ —” She held up a hand, demanding silence.

“I do not forbid you from seeing him,” she explained in her sternest tone. “You may do as you please; I’ve learned my lesson _there_. But _I_ never want to see him again; not in _this_ house, not on _that_ table, not through _that_ window,” she growled, finger jabbing as she drove her point home.

“Am I perfectly clear?” She looked at Julio, who nodded quickly. “Hmm?” The twins sighed, but agreed. “Rosita?” Rosita didn’t turn around, her shoulders quivering, but her assent was still visible even from the back. “Victoria?” Her expression was defiant, but she too gave a curt nod. “Then I am going to my room. I am very tired, and I want to rest a little before supper.” She was almost to the stairs when Victoria spoke.

“What about his boots?”

Imelda stopped, fingers resting lightly on the handrail. She turned to look back at them, the setting sun throwing her face into shadowy profile. After a moment’s pause, she stepped back into the room, her arms crossing as she narrowed her gaze on her granddaughter. The two faced off in a silent war, neither backing down.

“ _Mija_ ,” Julio whispered, but no one paid him any mind.

“What. About. Them?” Imelda asked slowly, her mouth forming each word very distinctly. The room itself trembled; the tension between the matriarch and the youngest member of the family pulled like a bowstring until the stale heat of the evening became unbearable, making the men glad that bones couldn’t sweat. Rosita tapped her fingers on the table nervously, her eyes sliding from one thin figure to the other.

Victoria remained silent, standing in a way that seemed simultaneously to show deference and defiance. Imelda continued to glare at her, but she showed no sign of buckling. Her hands gripped each other tightly behind her back, but she squared her shoulders and readied herself for a lecture the same way dead men readied themselves for a firing squad. 

“Hm.” Imelda turned to go back to the stairs. The moment her back was turned, it was as if a switch flipped and Victoria was able to speak again.

“The boots—” 

“The _Devil_ take his boots!” The family gasped in disbelief and even Imelda herself faltered, hand clapping to her mouth as she realized what she said. That was the sort of thing her parents would have punished her dearly for saying; it was no joke to lay a curse on someone. It was even worse in the Land of the Dead, where curses could take hold in one’s living family.

“Imelda!” Felipe exclaimed, stunned. Victoria turned to look at her father, who was openly gaping and near to losing his lower jaw entirely.

“I—forgive me. _Con permiso_ , I’m going to lie down for awhile.”  Still holding a hand to her head, she quickly climbed the stairs. No one spoke until they heard the faint sound of her bedroom door shutting.

““ _Ay_ , Oscar.” Felipe rubbed the bone between his eye sockets before prodding at the place where his crow’s feet used to be. “¿ _Qué vamos a hacer_?”

“¡ _Qué terca_!” Oscar threw up his hands. “We’re back at square one.”

“We’re behind square one,” Victoria corrected glumly. “He wasn’t banned from the house before.”

* * *

 

_This is my fault._

She rested quietly on the bed, eyes closed and hands folded demurely across her lap. She had opened the window before lying down, and the breeze blew softly over her as it stirred the curtains. An _alebrije_ was in the pine, alternating between bird and goat noises.

 _Weakness._ It was a moment of weakness, letting him waltz right back into her life when she had swore to forget him. _How many times must I throw him away_? she asked once again, to herself this time. _How many times must you go through this before you learn your lesson, Imelda?_   

Just because he had come back with Miguel… she had been stronger then, hadn’t she? Telling him to his face that she could never forgive him. It was the truth, right? It was absolutely impossible to undo decades of pain with an apology… wasn’t it? What had happened? When had she grown so weak?

_I should have forgotten you years ago._

But she couldn’t, could she? It was never going to happen. She couldn’t just forget _him_ , not when he had left her Coco. Her daughter, living proof that she’d known love and had _been_ loved, once. Coco was her reminder that it wasn’t some fanciful dream, and it had all really happened. That she had been happy.

A faint rhythm floated on the wind, barely audible over the bleating of the _alebrije_. There was a laugh from the street, a snatch of humming, a horn and an answering shout.

Héctor… music and his memory were so intertwined that it only took a few notes to bring him back to her. It was impossible for her to find pleasure in one without thinking of the other.  He was her _músico_ , whether she liked it or not.

One strum of a guitar, one exuberant _grito_ , and she was back in the plaza with him at her side. Most of the time it was a faint memory, easily pushed away. But every once in a while it was more; sometimes she could have sworn that if she turned around, he would be there. He was immortalized in her memory, never a day older than the night he left: pristine clothing and patched suitcase, a look in his eyes that begged her to understand.

That was one of the more selfish reasons she’d sought to abolish music from the Rivera household; the less she was exposed to it, the less he crept into her mind. There had once been days, even weeks, when she never thought of him at all. Shoes were life, her anchor. If she was making shoes she had to concentrate; she didn’t have time to remember what it felt like to be held, to have someone sit close and play for her and her alone, or whisper songs to her when everyone else was asleep.

But to remember music, just for one night… that had been such _fun_!  There was joy in it, a thrumming emotion that moved her feet and swung her hips and—ah! ¡ _Qué alegría_!

And singing! Oh, how she’d _missed_ singing! The way she felt alive from head to toe, losing herself in the lyrics…. And all the while, his guitar had been in the back of her mind, keeping up with every note as easy as anything. It had not just been enough to remember, no: she had become young again in that moment. She had felt the years melting away with the cheering of the crowd until she was as she had been, lovely and in love. It was the same feeling, so warm and familiar, that she had felt so long ago.

When he played for her, and she sang for him—for even then, fighting for Miguel’s life, part of her had been singing for him—nothing had mattered.

At the end of the Sunrise Spectacular, when she’d escaped Ernesto and snatched the photo right out of his grubby, greedy fingers, both excited and scared, unable to think straight—she’d acted on instinct jumping into Héctor’s arms as if she were still twenty years old.

She’d laughed while he held her, twirling her, his arms so welcomed after being manhandled by that sorry excuse for a celebrity. She’d looked up into his eyes and saw the man she’d married staring back at her, proud and excited and worried and glad all at once. She had felt _shy_ , for the first time in nearly a century.

And she had loved him.

She realized now that being furious enough to part ways with someone didn’t mean you stopped loving them. She had never _stopped_ loving him, not completely. The pain of being abandoned, left alone with a child and no way of knowing if he’d ever return, hadn’t been enough to completely sever the connection they shared.

That was what hurt the most.

She had almost forgotten what that had felt like. Its memory had become a dull throb, the way all memories of pain do. But she remembered it now. The queasy numbness that had been her companion spread through her like an old ache, one that came and went in the course of a lifetime. It stole her breath and resonated in her very bones, a fierce torment that ceased only when she turned her mind to other things. When she stayed occupied, his memory was a fragment of dreams, a ghost, unable to hurt her unless she remembered when she woke.

How could she have forgotten _this_?  The loneliness, the regret, the anger? She had wanted to forget him, but instead she had somehow forgotten her own heartache.

The sun was almost fully set. She didn’t have to open her eyes to notice the absence of its warmth. Across the street from her window a bar had its back door open; she could hear the faint clinking of glasses, a dull murmur of overlapping conversations and the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen. The _alebrije_ had left, or was silent. Something thumped loudly downstairs, followed quickly by the sound of muffled laughter.

 _Mi familia._ They had been worried about her—were probably still worried. She was supposed to be their rock, the one who had all the answers and made all the decisions. In return, they were the faces of unwavering familial loyalty, the foundation that had built the Rivera shoe business into an empire. Not just the dead, but also the living ones—they who carried on her memory and enforced her rules, even if they’d never seen her in life.

She had failed them all. She was supposed to be the voice of reason, but instead she had gotten herself tangled up in a mess nearly a century old. She had shouted at her granddaughter, worried her brothers, and nearly made Rosita cry—all for what? Had she not said, time and time again, that music was the catalyst? _Music tore our family apart, but shoes bring us together._ Wasn’t that what she’d told Coco over and over? Why should she go back on her own words?   

And yet somehow, some way, he’d waltzed right back into her life. He strung them along with his _music_. They were enamored with him, for whatever reason—even Victoria, who was usually so levelheaded! And without so much as one—well, no, that wasn’t right. He _had_ apologized, hadn’t he? An apology that she had waited decades for, had imagined so many ways. She had been prepared for it, but when it had actually happened… she found that she wasn’t prepared at all.

Her hands tightened on her stomach, feeling the rough cloth beneath her fingers.

 _¿Y qué?_ What was one apology, when compared to a lifetime of hard work!? He had left her with no income, no stability, no way to fend for herself and _certainly_ with no choice but to better herself however she could! Papá had been dead two years; Mamá was on her sickbed with no strength to chase after a rambunctious little girl. Oscar and Felipe were still home, but it wasn’t fair to ask them to set aside their lives.

They did so anyway because she was their sister, watching Coco the same way she had once watched after them. They sat up late, letting her review her lessons by teaching them what Don Martín had taught her. They learned about shoes with her, and then helped her make them.

 And all this time, where was _he_? Sure, he sent letters home from time to time, little poems or songs for Coco and other, more private notes for her. She read them at first, but as time passed and her ire grew she began throwing them straight into the kitchen fire as she passed. She didn’t burn Coco’s letters, though. Every time she considered it she thought of her little girl’s face, lit up in glee at a new letter from Papá. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

But would it have killed him to send some _money_ home with those letters?! Money was all he had talked about before he left—money, money, money. They would be rich; they would never have to work a day in their lives…. Pah! She was only working because he left in the first place!  But _no,_ he was off in Monterrey or Toluca or Mexico City or… _who knows where,_ because he stopped writing altogether! She could just see him in the fancy clubs that catered to musicians, toasting with Ernesto and flirting with the cute young waitress that refilled his drinks, forgetting about the promises he’d made to her…. 

_He tried to go home to you and_ _Coco_ _, but de la Cruz murdered him!_

The chilly night air seemed even colder at the memory of her great-great-grandson’s revelation. Those words made her sick to her stomach in a way that Héctor’s memory never had. _De la Cruz murdered him_. It had shaken her to the core to hear them. She hadn’t wanted to believe him; not only did it mean that Ernesto was a murderer, but… she was wrong. It meant that her entire life she’d been blaming him for something that he’d never done. She couldn’t think about it for very long, imagining him in pain and afraid, trying to get one more step, just _one more—_

She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it took only one look at his face to know that it was the truth. The honesty and shame written there, a pitiable sight as he stood to the side, away from the group, dressed in rags with his hat in his hands and head hung low. And then, on top of _that,_ to see him still in pain, to realize that he was one of the Forgotten and it was no one’s fault but her own….

But it shouldn’t matter! None of that would have happened, had he not just stayed home where he belonged. Ernesto had filled his ears with stories of the wide world outside of St. Cecelia. He had illusions of grandeur, always talking about touring all over Mexico, then America, and Spain and Europe. She reasoned with him as best she could, trying to convince him that their child took precedence over his dreams.

Who in Europe cared about a duo from an unknown town? Who in America was standing at a plaza waiting for them? Who in _Mexico_ , for that matter?! They had been arguing about it for months, staying up late into the night after Coco was asleep.

She had given up so much already for her family, just like Mamá had said. Why was she the only one who had to let go of her dreams? It had taken one look at her daughter for her to realize that her mother was right: family was the most important thing on the face of this earth.

Why did he not see that? Why was he so insistent upon going?

He _said_ it was the money, but she knew the truth. He was blinded by an imaginary crowd, deafened by their cheers. He wanted what he wanted, and with Ernesto at his back it was two against one.

_Don’t you want_ _Coco_ _to have what we didn’t? She can have dresses and all the toys she could ever want. She can go to a good school; she can go wherever she wants to! And you’ll have a big house and servants, you’ll never have to cook or clean again—_

_Those are your excuses, Héctor!_

_But think of your mamá! I can get her the best doctors in_ _Mexico_ _—no, the best that money can buy anywhere! Our family will be famous, just think of it! Not to mention the town will do well, just because we came—_

_I don’t want to hear it anymore!_

She didn’t care for cooking and cleaning; she barely remembered a time when she _hadn’t_ done those. She would sleep just as well on cotton sheets as she would on satin. And Coco was just as pretty in homespun clothes as she would ever be in pink lace. She didn’t want a fancy house or servants; she wanted her tiny hacienda with the old pine in the courtyard, cracked stone paths and thin walls filled with love.

And yet… despite all this, that selfish, selfish man was going to leave.

The air really was cold, now. She could hear a dog barking in the distance, but the street had grown quiet. It was late. She ought to get up and shut the window, but she didn’t want to move and make noise. The silence was comforting, in its own way. Her breathing slowed to match the soft ebb and flow of the leaves in the wind.

One part of her mind knew she was dozing, but the other was aware of every sound in the room. She didn’t stir, but she heard the creaking floorboards and knew she wasn’t alone. A hand smoothed her hair, tilting her head to kiss her cheek. She opened her eyes, pulling herself back out of the sleep that had nearly claimed her.

“Héctor?” He didn’t answer, leaning down to kiss her other cheek when she turned her face to him. She welcomed it, part drowsy surprise and part warm yearning. Her eyes moved from his face to the collar of his neatly ironed shirt and she froze, stiffening and pulling away. He reached for her and she rolled over, facing the wall.

“Imelda,” he pleaded softly, his hand on her arm. She slapped it away, hunching her shoulders. “Fine.” His voice grew harder, and she heard him stand up from where he had knelt beside the bed. “Be angry at me if you want.”

She heard him walk away, heavier steps now that he knew she was awake. She was almost afraid that he really _would_ go, but when she looked over her shoulder her was standing by the bedroom door, rubbing his arm and watching her hopefully. She didn’t speak as she got up, walking to the window and closing it before staring out at the moonlit night. He came up behind her.

“Imelda.” Spoken like that, her name was plaintive and tired. It sounded the same way she felt inside.  

“I thought you were going.”

“I am.” He put his hands on her forearms, rubbing warmth back into her cool skin. “I just wanted to say goodbye.” She jerked herself out of his grasp.

“You said it already.”

“Yes… to Coco.” He didn’t try to touch her again, but he was close enough that she could feel his breath against the back of her neck. “But not to you.” She didn’t know how to answer that; it would have been better for him to just _go_ , instead of dragging it out. Grief choked her and she squeezed her eyes shut against it. She would not cry for him; she was too strong to break down when he was the one choosing this. She took a breath, swallowed the lump in her throat, and prepared to speak.

“Listen—”

“… _Please_.” If anything was going to break her, it would be that. She wavered, caught between pride and love. She turned, still intending to repeat her earlier threats and promises that if he left, she would never forgive him, she’d set dogs on him if he dared to come back, she’d burn all his belongings and dump the ashes in the river. But his eyes caught her, softening her frown as they searched her face. Those eyes had always been her undoing.

“Listen,” she tried again, but nothing else would come out. He brushed his knuckles over her skin, thumbs smoothing her cheeks; she let him, breath catching in her throat. He cupped her jaw in both hands when he reached it, turning her face to the light and studying it closely as if taking a mental picture for later. She reached up and put her hands on top of his, feeling of his long, graceful fingers. He bumped his lips against hers, silently asking permission.

She allowed him to kiss her, knowing all the while that it wasn’t the smartest choice. He stroked her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, his insistent mouth coaxing kiss after kiss from her until she was heady from the sensation. She would have been willing to forget everything had the clock not chimed the hour in the other room, pulling him from her as he looked over his shoulder.

“I should have come earlier…” His words were a hoarse rumble, filled with regret. “I meant to—I wanted more time—” Her breath quickened as he began to move away, her hands leaving his to grab his shoulders. His face was turned so she pressed kisses to his jaw; in his hurry to prepare he had forgotten to shave, his roughened skin catching at her lips.

“Héctor—” She was embarrassed at the whine in her voice, but it took his attention back from the clock. He closed his eyes as she peppered him with kisses, a desperate mockery of all the times he had ever grabbed her up and covered her face with _besitos_. He stopped her after a moment, pressing his forehead against hers.

“ _Mi amor_.” He stroked her hair, panting softly. “Oh, _mi amor_ … I’m going to miss you so much….” She didn’t answer, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her nose into his shirt, breathing in his scent. His heart thundered under her ear. She would never beg him; she had promised herself, the first time he was serious about his plans, that she wouldn’t fall so far. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t _ask._

“Héctor… _no me dejes_.” He fell silent, his hand resting on the back of her head and holding her to his chest.

“Ernesto is waiting at the station.”

“Tell him you changed your mind.” He sighed.

“It-It’s not forever, Imeldita. Just until I have—” He stopped himself, feeling her stiffen in his arms. She faltered a moment, not wanting to lose the warmth of his body against her and afraid that if she stopped holding him back, he’d slip through her fingers like a ghost. She pushed away and he tried to grab her, a smile wobbling precariously on his lips. “I’ll buy you the world, _mi amada_ , just you wait.”

“I don’t _want_ the world!” _I just want you._ She backed away and he let her go, hands falling helplessly to his side as he spared another glance at the clock through the open door. His jaw worked as he crossed and uncrossed his arms before running both hands through his hair.

“Look, I’ll write to you when we’re settled in the hotel.” His voice had fallen flat, resigned, and she knew then that it was never a matter of convincing him to stay. They wanted different things. She wanted a husband, and he wanted fame. Her entire world crumbled beneath her feet, leaving her shaken and alone.

“You’re going.” It wasn’t a question. He looked back at her, picking up his suitcase where it rested against the wall.

“I have to. For you and Coco.”

“For _Ernesto_.” It was pitiful, to feel jealous of a _man_ when she was his wife. But he had chosen his best friend over her; how could she not feel the thick, choking tendrils of jealousy as they curled around her heart? The bitterness of the words sat on her tongue, but she had meant them. She wasn’t stupid.

“Imelda. _Imelda._ He walked over to her, his free hand catching her chin and tilting it up so that she had no choice but to look in his eyes. “For _you_ and _Coco_ _._ Ernesto is just… along for the ride.”

“You say that, but—” He interrupted her with one last, quick kiss. It was over before she even knew it had begun.

“I have to go now.” He tried to smile, but it was an empty expression. She watched him through the doorway as he put down the suitcase, grabbing his guitar beside the door and looping the strap over his head. The guitar _she_ had bought for him, to play here, with her, after his old one had finally given up and broken. The skull jeered at her. He opened the door, picked up his guitar case in the other hand, and looked back once more before stepping outside. She came unstuck then, stumbling to the open door.

“Héctor Rivera…” There were tears in her voice, but she was too angry and hurt to care. He stopped, looking over his shoulder at her in surprise. “Don’t think we’ll be waiting for you.” Her heart hammered against her ribs, breaking with every beat. “Don’t you dare show your face around here again. I… I ha….” She clenched her jaw, swallowing thickly. “ _Cabrón_.” She couldn’t discern his expression; it might have been tired, or bored, or nothing at all. He looked her over, turning only when a train whistled in the distance.

“I’ll write from the hotel.” He hefted the guitar case, kissed the air, and walked away. She shut the door when he turned the corner, afraid to slam it and wake the house. She saw her hands trembling against the wood and leaned her forehead against it, choking back ragged breaths.

“Stupid, stupid… _tonto_ , I can’t believe you’d— _no vuelvas, no estaré aquí_ —”

“Mamá?” She turned with a gasp, wiping her eyes quickly. Her little girl, still wobbly on plump baby legs, stood at the end of the hall. She fisted the sleep out of her eye, her doll hanging limply from one hand. “Mamá?”

“Oh, Coco.” She walked over, sweeping her up and holding her tightly. “Shh, _mija.”_ Tiny hands touched her collar, big eyes—her father’s eyes—looking up at her.

“Papá is gone?” she mumbled, still half asleep. She couldn’t answer right away, looking over her daughter to the empty bedroom, the large, cold bed. Her chin wobbled and she pressed her close to her heart, rubbing her back as they swayed together in the hall.

“Yes… he is gone.”

Her eyes opened, though they’d been open. She was on her side, still on the bed, her pillow pressed close to her heart.

 _A dream? Yes… a dream._ She sat up, wiping her eye sockets and finding them wet. _Dios mío_ , _getting so worked up over a dream._ She cleared her throat, rising to her feet and wincing when her left patella popped. She fixed the bed where she’d moved restlessly, fluffing the pillow and putting it back before wiping again at her face.

She ought to have known it was just a dream. It had been a long time since she’d had skin, and even then it had been wrinkled and spotted. _It just proves I’m right,_ she grumbled to herself as she looked around the darkened room before lighting the lamp. She reached into her bedside table and pulled out a barely used handkerchief—skeletons didn’t have noses to blow or sweat to wipe, after all—dotting at her face as she closed the window to keep out the chill. _Such memories are best forgotten._

She turned to the _tocador,_ seeing Victoria’s little tea tray. Her favorite teacup sat there, and beside it was a sliced orange. _Mi familia._ She took a sip of the tea; it had gone cold some time ago, but it soothed her dry throat. She looked at herself in the mirror, lipstick barely smudged but otherwise presentable.

 _My family is all that I need._ They took care of each other. They let her rest and brought her oranges, even if she had embarrassed herself and made a scene. Judging by the time they’d let her sleep through supper, but she was certain something had been kept hot for her on the stove. Even if he had left, her family remained. She had been content with that before, and could be again. She could live without him.

She’d already done it once.


	7. Taking Matters Into Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria is tired of the shenanigans.  
> The twins make a call center worker hate her job.

            The week grew steadily worse… if your name wasn’t Imelda Rivera.

            The very next day, Mamá Imelda was nowhere to be seen. Oscar, Julio, and Rosita all tried to knock on her door, but she refused all company. She took only a little tea that evening, claiming that her headache took away her appetite. Rosita took her the tea and reported upon returning that she was not in bed, but dressed and seated at her mirror. There was, of course, the clear contradiction of a skeleton having a headache when there was nothing in the skull to _hurt_ ; however, no one dared to voice it. They crept around downstairs, taking pains to be quieter than usual. 

            The day after, Imelda came down to go over the account books with Rosita. She was quiet, giving one word answers when necessary and working straight through lunch. They gave her a wide berth, yet stumbled over each other to fetch anything she needed in an effort to make her happy. In the evening, she helped the girls with supper and went up to her bedroom the moment the dishes were done.

            It was after she went upstairs that Julio noticed the unfinished calfskin was nowhere to be found. They’d left it at her workstation, and they’d all thought she hadn’t looked up from the books all day. A near silent, but frantic search ensued as they turned the workroom on its head, scrambling to find what had become of the leather that was meant for Héctor’s boots. Dreading what they might find, Victoria and Rosita forced the twins to go check the outside garbage. Thankfully, they came back empty-handed.

            Felipe eventually discovered the leather in the back of the supply cabinet, wrapped neatly in a ragged cloth and shoved into the darkest corner. They all hunched around the open cabinet door, staring at the sad little lump; no one dared to move it, but no one wanted to shut the door and leave it all alone in the dark, either. Finally, Felipe quietly shut the door and they looked at each other, wondering what, if anything, they could even do.

            The third day, Mamá seemed back to normal—the normal _they_ knew, in any case. She scolded when they went off task, made small talk with the customers, haggled with their leather supplier, and even smiled at one of Oscar’s jokes. She cooked her signature _caldo de pollo_ , though it was no one’s birthday. She complimented Victoria’s exquisite needlework on a pair of wedding shoes, and mended Julio’s favorite trousers after supper.

They all worked as hard as they could to please her in return. No one mentioned the boots, though they all burned with their shared secret. It never occurred to them to even speak _his_ name, though they cast worried glances at each other whenever Imelda’s back was turned. The twins didn’t tinker with inventions, Rosita waited to water her garden until after supper, and Victoria didn’t look at the bookshelf once all afternoon. Julio did briefly, timidly ask if she felt okay, to which she smiled and replied that yes, her headache was gone and she felt fine.

No one brought up the subject again. 

Day Four was Saturday, which meant the shop was closed. Everyone found themselves in the tiny room that was, for better or worse, a parlor. They were free to spread out, but force of habit had them together anyway.

None of the younger generations had ever known what it was like to live without family on top of one’s head all the time; to live in an empty house would have been absolutely impossible. Even Imelda and her brothers, who had lived with their parents, couldn’t remember a time when distant cousins, friends, neighbors and their ilk weren’t constantly trickling in and out of the front doors.

They were most comfortable when clumped together like a patch of weeds or a flock of birds. If they _did_ want some privacy, they could always go up to their bedroom to be alone. Oscar and Felipe shared a room, but they always managed to work it out between them; to be fair, they had _never_ known life without the other and were hard pressed to voluntarily separate. Normally, the Riveras could stay in the same room and not bother each other in the slightest.

Today was not a normal day.

Everyone was on pins and needles, and no one could explain why. There was fair reason for it, though: they had all been trying so hard to please Imelda that they had thrown off their own natural balances.

Rosita had been squashing her gossipy tendencies all week, and was fairly bursting at the seams to just jump to her feet and _demand_ to know what happened between Mamá Imelda and he-who-must-not-be-named. Julio knew his sister too well, and in his effort to keep her mind occupied and away from… certain topics… he was nearly at his wit’s end. Oscar and Felipe’s inventive hobbies spawned from a natural inclination for experimentation; when not indulged, the old unruliness from their childhood came back in full swing. They were too old to run around the house causing mayhem, but they were unable to sit still for ten minutes without making some kind of noise. This noise bothered Victoria, her teeth grinding with every finger snap and toe tap until she was dangerously close to cracking a canine.

Only Imelda was unaffected by this contagious madness. She sat primly in her favorite armchair, the sun shining through the open window and making patterns across her lap. She was the picture of serenity as she sewed, patiently plucking at an errant stitch on her needlepoint without a single sound. If she had hummed while she worked, she might have seemed grandmotherly and comforting; without any background noise she was distant, lost in her own world of tiny, perfect stitches.

 Victoria cracked first, her already frazzled-nerves driven to the breaking point by the uneven tapping of the twin’s soles on hardwood. Shutting her book with enough force to break even Imelda’s concentration, she stood and dusted off her skirt with a tight, forced grin.

“It’s such a lovely morning,” she said, trying to hide the edge in her voice by speaking faster than usual. “I think I’ll take a walk. Why don’t you join me, Tía Rosita?”

“Huh?” Rosita looked up from the skirt she was hemming. Victoria jerked her head slightly and her eyes lit up in comprehension. “Of course! I’d love to take a walk. The sunshine is so nice.” She was on her feet in an instant, bouncing on her heels as she hurried to her niece’s side.

“Let’s go too,” Oscar suggested, clambering to his feet.

“Yes, let’s,” Felipe agreed, stretching his arms over his head. “If only to get out of here,” he muttered close to his brother’s ear, low enough that no one else could hear him. Julio looked at his mother in law, then his daughter; he made a little hand motion that all children, alive or dead, know to mean ‘be polite’. Victoria swallowed a sigh, but managed to keep her smile in place.

“Mamá Imelda, would you like to come?” she asked. “We can go down to the plaza. I know you like to sit near the fountain.” At the word _plaza_ , Imelda yanked the thread so hard that it snapped. She blinked in surprise at it, mouth puckering.

“No, thank you.” She unthreaded the needle and began picking at the torn thread, tucking it down beneath another stitch to hide it. “I’d rather stay here.”

“I think I’ll stay, too,” Julio said, settling down into his own worn armchair. “These old bones just don’t get around the way they used to.” Imelda smiled at him, grateful for the company. If she noticed how hurried the rest of them seemed, she didn’t comment on it.

They all breathed a little easier as they passed the gate and reached the sidewalk, heading down the slope towards the center of the neighborhood. There were few people on the streets this early, most sleeping off the night before or relaxing in their homes until the heat of the sun wore off in the afternoon. A group of men reclined in wooden chairs before the bar, nodding to the twins and tipping their hats politely to the women. Children played everything from hopscotch to tag on the corners, or sat huddled together on the stairs in front of apartments as they laughed at videos on their phones.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Victoria said as they paused, waiting for the light to change at a crosswalk. She squinted at the sky before adjusting her shawl so that it covered her head; she didn’t like to be out of doors, but it was worth it if she kept her sanity. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“What?” Rosita asked absently, giggling at a trio of little girls jumping rope. The one in the middle lost her balance—and her head—forcing her older sister to catch her skull before it landed in the street.

“I just don’t understand her.” Victoria shook her head, glaring at a gang of teenagers as they rolled by on skateboards, ignoring the ‘No Crossing’ light. “What, if she pretends he doesn’t exit, he’ll suddenly disappear?”

“Have you seen him?” Felipe pointed out. She didn’t have an answer for that. He hadn’t come to the shop since the afternoon he’d danced on the table. “This is how it was before.”

“And what, are we supposed to just tiptoe around until our Final Death?” The twins stared at her blankly.

“That’s what we did.”

“ _Sí_.”  

“And whose fault was that?”

“Why, Héctor’s!” Oscar exclaimed simply. Felipe nodded his agreement, shrugging. The light changed and they hurried across.

“Well, I’m not going to stand for it.” Victoria clenched her fists, walking faster until they were jogging to keep up with her. “I’m going to do something about it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Héctor.” She pushed her glasses up until they sat firmly on her cheeks.

“And then what?” Rosita panted, trying to keep abreast of her.

“I don’t know.” Victoria’s frown became more resolute. “Step One,” she stated, holding up her finger. “Find Héctor. Step Two…” She held up two fingers, looking at them and faltering. “I’ll think of something after I find him.”

“How are you going to find one man in a city this big?”

“I’m going to ask. I’ll ask every person in the neighborhood if I have to. _Somebody’s_ got to know where he is.” But she sounded unsure. Felipe let out his breath in a low _whoosh_.

“Victoria, even if you _do_ find him, Mamá Imelda’s not going to listen to you.”

“She’s got to.” Rosita grabbed her hand, slowing her until they stood in the middle of the sidewalk.

“ _Mija…_ ” She smiled faintly. Victoria scowled at her, but a moment later she sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Of course it’s not going to work,” she admitted, rubbing her forehead. “But what else can we do? We have to try _something_. We can’t keep going on like this.”

“We need the _curandera_ ,” Rosita clapped her hands together, eyes glittering with conviction. 

“She’s not _sick_ ,” Victoria pointed out, “she’s stubborn.” Rosita shook her head, finger wagging.

“No, no,” she assured. “My mamá always said the only cure for a marital spat was for the _curandera_ to bless the house.”

“I think this is more than a _spat_.”

“The fact is, Papá Héctor could have a bad spirit connected to him because of his murder.” Rosita held up her hands, appealing to some higher authority. “We’ve got to bless him too while we’re at it.” Victoria pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Tía Rosita, he _is_ a spirit. We all are.”

“Well—”

“We’re not getting a _curandera_.” They cut through an alley, stepping lightly down a flight of rickety stairs before emerging onto a thoroughfare leading to the plaza. Rosita paused to look at a cart of flowers, smiling as she touched the edge of a rosebud. “Come on.”

“We could have used the advice, at least.” She hurried to catch up.

“Advice?” Felipe stopped short, Oscar skidding behind him and nearly knocking them both over. The women turned to look back at them.

“Yes. The _curandera_ gives great advice.” Rosita smiled, thinking she had converted them to her side. But Felipe didn’t seem to hear her, his expression distant and mouth hanging open.

“Tío Felipe?” Victoria looked over her frames at him, hand hanging in the air. “Is everything okay?”

“Advice….” The brainstorming gleam they all knew too well began to shine in his eyes. “Advice!”

“ _Hermano_?”

“Tell me.” Felipe snapped his fingers under Oscar’s nose. “Imelda, she won’t listen to us.”

“She… she won’t listen to us,” Oscar repeated obediently, adding, “She’ll tell us to mind our own business.”

“¡ _Eso es_! But, she needs to listen to _someone_ , right?”

“Right.” Oscar seemingly caught on, leaving the other two in confusion as he began to nod in time with his twin. “She’s not doing any better on her own, in any case.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I think so, if you’re thinking what _I’m_ thinking.” They turned to Victoria and Rosita, who were starting to lean away from them warily. “So, the solution is…” Rosita looked to Victoria, who shook her head, baffled.

“A _quién_ —” Felipe prompted, waving his hands for them to add the rest of the answer. Rosita smiled apologetically, Victoria shaking her head. The men rolled their eyes before finishing the sentence simultaneously.

“¿ _A quién escuchará Imelda_?” Felipe shook his head as though it were the easiest thing in the world. There was silence.

“A-are we supposed to answer that, too?” Rosita asked nervously. “I’m not doing very well, am I?”

“It’s a trick question,” Victoria guessed. “Mamá Imelda listens to Mamá Imelda.”

“No.” Felipe held up one finger. “There is one person. Oscar, _hermano_ : who did Imelda always listen to without fail?”

“Mamá.”

“No, I meant outside of family.” Oscar ran a finger along his mustache as he thought.

“Ah… hmm—oh! Lucía?”

“Lucía!” Felipe grabbed his shoulders in his excitement. “If we can find where she lives—”

“We can ask her to help—”

“She’ll talk to Imelda—”

“And make her forgive Héctor! “¡ _Claro que sí_!” Oscar laughed. “Our problem will be solved; you’re so smart!”

“You’d have thought of it if I hadn’t,” Felipe assured him, giving his shoulders a little shake. “That settles it then, no? We’ll go find her.”

“Lucía…?” Victoria thought a moment. “That’s Mamá Imelda’s old friend from the living world, right?”

“Oh, I think I remember her!” Rosita exclaimed. “Size 8, preference for suede… oh! Our first pair of rattlesnake boots!”

“That’s her,” Oscar nodded. “She and Imelda were inseparable when we were kids.” 

“After we were grown, too.”

“She was always around—”

“Even after Imelda married—”

“Even after _she_ married—”

“She was like a second sister to us—”

“Except she liked our little jokes, not like Imelda.”

“Fine, fine.” Victoria waved her hands to make them stop, her eyes rolling from switching between them faster than the audience at a tennis match. “But will she even help?”

“She likes Héctor. Or _liked_ him.” Felipe shrugged one shoulder. “She’ll help.” 

“Again: how do we find her?”

“Is she even _here_?” Rosita asked, wincing. _Has she been Forgotten_? The question hung in the air between them, unspoken but still very much noted.

“I think so.” Oscar tapped his chin. “I know Imelda still visits her from time to time. But we can’t ask _her_ , not without being interrogated.” 

“We’ll have to ask the Directory for her address.”

“Right. There should be a payphone around here somewhere….”

“You two go find this Lucía.” Victoria looked at her aunt. “Rosita, you and I will find Héctor. I want to know why he hasn’t come back.”

* * *

 

“Thank you for calling the Directory of the Deceased. If you are calling about the status of the Recently Deceased, press 1. If you are calling about the status of a possible Forgotten Soul, press 2. If you—”

“Just press 0.” Felipe prodded Oscar in the shoulder to get his attention. “That’ll take us to the operator.”

“Shh!” Oscar smacked his hand away, eyes narrowed at the phone. “I’m trying to hear the options!”

“If you are calling to inquire about the status of a person unrelated to you, press—”

“Ha!” He shouted, repeatedly pushing the faded #6 key.

“Please hold. A representative will be with you shortly.”

“No!” He jabbed it a few more times. “No, no, no!”

“Please hold. A representative—Please hold. A rep—Please hold—”

“Ay!” He slapped a palm to his forehead.

“I _told_ you to press 0.”

“¡ _Cállate_! Do you have any more change? This might be awhile.” Felipe dug in his pockets while Oscar held the receiver in the air between them. A full ten seconds of jaunty elevator music looped loudly enough that they could both hear it, both annoying and immediately catchy. There was a break in the music, and they both groaned when it proved to be a recording rather than the promised representative.

“Here at the Department of Family Reunions, we treasure our customers. Thank you for holding.” People peered in at them as they walked by the little phone booth, situated just outside an out-of-business cantina. They proved to be an interesting sight, folded together inside the booth like a mirror image, knees bent and heads scraping the ceiling as they waited with the phone held up between them, feeding the machine coins. 

“ _Hola_! My name is Paullina; how may I assist you today?”

“Ah—Hello?” Oscar fumbled with the receiver. “Hello? Yes, I’d like to find the address of a family friend, please.”

“Certainly, I’d be more than happy to help you with that.” There was the sound of a mouse clicking. “May I have their full name, please?”

“It’s Lucíaaahh… erm….” He looked at his twin, mind going blank. “What was her last name?!” he hissed in a panicked whisper.

“How am I supposed to know that?!”

“You were always better at remembering things—”

“I haven’t seen her in nearly—ay, _Dios mío_ , just… didn’t she marry Francisco?”

“She married _Fernando_ , but what was his name?”

“ _Señor_?” Oscar looked around helplessly before shouting down into the phone.

“She married Fernando!” There was a long moment of crackling silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of a groan. When the representative spoke again, she sounded very tired.

“ _Señor…_ I’m sure you understand: there are _many_ Lucías and Fernandos in the Land of the Dead.”

“I do understand, but…” he looked again at Felipe, who shrugged as best he could in the crowded space. “She’s from Santa Cecilia!”

“Do you know her death date?”

“Uh….” The woman sighed, the sound hollow and unforgiving. “She… she ran a bar.”

“She would have been…” Felipe counted on his fingers. “Twenty-four years old in 1920. She married that year.”

“Fernando was the butcher’s son.”

“Her mother’s name was Rosa, I think? Ramona? Rosa Maria?”

“Did they die before or after us?”

“They died after Imelda.”

“Yes, but—”

“That doesn’t help me at all.” The representative just sounded impatient now. “I’m going to put you on hold while I speak to the records department.” Before they could answer, the looping music filled the booth again.

“I don’t think we’re very good customers, Oscar.”

“I think you’re right.” They both stared at the receiver, repeating the recorded message along with the happy male voice whenever it came up. They were down to their last coin when the line reconnected, the representative clearing her throat.

“Okay, so I’ve got a Lucía Fernández Oreiro de Santa Cecilia who married Fernando Garcia in 1920. If that’s not your Lucía, then—”

“Garcia! Yes, that’s her!” The agent let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘thank goodness’.

“Great!” she drawled. “Are you ready for her address?”

* * *

 

“ _Disculpe_ , have you heard of a man named Héctor?”

“No, sorry.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but does anyone named Héctor live around here?”

“I don’t know any Héctor.”

“That’s nearly everyone on the street.” Rosita took off her hair and wiped her skull. “What now?”

“We move on to the next street.” Victoria leaned against a brick wall, resting in the shade a moment. “Someone in this neighborhood _has_ to know him.”

“I— _Disculpe,_ we’re looking for a man named Héctor: straw hat, barefoot?” The woman in question shook her head quickly before hurrying on, pushing her young son ahead of her. Rosita sighed. “Victoria, maybe we should try something else.”

“There’s nothing else to try.” Victoria stepped in front of two men. “Do either of you know a man named Héctor? He’s about this tall,” she measured with her hand.

“Sorry, no.” They smiled sympathetically before walking around her and continuing on their way down the thoroughfare. The women looked at each other before slowly walking towards the last stretch of the road glumly.

“Maybe we’ll have more luck at the plaza?”

“Mamá Imelda did say it would be more crowded in the afternoon—Excuse me!” Victoria nearly dashed into the street, catching an old lady by the sleeve. “Do you know of a man named Héctor Rivera?”

“The man from the Sunrise Spectacular?”

“Yes! Yes!” Victoria leaned forward. “Do you know him?”

“No, dearie. I just saw him on TV.” The woman patted her hand before taking it gently from her arm.

“Oh… thank you anyway.” She stepped back and let the woman go.

“Did I hear you say you were looking for Héctor Rivera?” Both women looked around, seeing no one to fit the gravely voice that had spoken out. “Up here.” They looked up, shading their eyes against the sun to see a man on the roof of a nearby greengrocer’s, hammer in his hand. “You looking for Héctor?” he repeated. “Skinny fella with a guitar? Red bandana?”

“Yes!” Rosita called up to him. “Do you know where we can find him?”

“Depends on who’s looking,” the man shot back, twisting around to spit tobacco juice into a cup. There was a tattoo of a lady’s skull on his left scapula, half hidden by the loose strap of his white tank top. He adjusted his sunglasses before peering down at them again. “Who are you?”

“He’s my grandfather,” Victoria explained. The man stared at her, jaw working.

“Does he know?”

“ _Yes_ , he knows!” she snapped back, crossing her arms. “What do you take me for?”   

“Look, when it comes to men like that, you gotta ask sometimes.” The man scratched his bald skull. “No offense to you, lady.”

“Do you know where we can find him or not?”

“ _We-ll_ … He’s usually at the plaza, up on Toño’s wall. It’s the bar on the north side of the plaza,” he explained, seeing their puzzled faces. “There’s this brick wall on the side that goes around to the gates—he’s sitting up there sometimes. If he’s not… eh… you can always ask Abuelita. She’s got a good eye for those Forgotten people.”

“Abuelita?”

“You don’t go to the plaza much, do you?” he huffed. “Little old lady, sells _memelas_ , biggest gossip on this side of town. Throws a mean shoe when you complain about her prices.” He rubbed the side of his head with a scowl. “Anyway, if I were looking for Héctor, that’s where I’d start.” He tossed his hammer, letting it spin in the air before catching it. “You ever met the guy?” he asked conversationally.

“Yes.”

“And you’re still looking for him?” The man laughed heartily before banging a few tiles with the back end of the hammer, loosening a crooked nail.

“ _Yes_.” Victoria glowered up at him, mouth pursed. “ _Thank you_.”

“Ay, whatever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: 
> 
> Not much is happening in this chapter, but it’s just a segue into the next, where the real fun begins! Lucía is a hoot to write, if I do say so myself. And we get to hear Héctor’s notions on a few things, as well as getting some quality time in with the Rivera girls. Fun will be had by all!


	8. Villa Amarilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda's friend is a talkative handful.   
> The twins get cake out of it, though. 
> 
> (Thanks to everyone on Tumblr for their great ideas about what happens at the Villa! A lot of them made me laugh and even gave me new ideas for how the LotD might work!)

Lucía lived in Villa Amarilla, a ' _Comunidad de los Muertos Geriátricos_ ' that stretched towards the sky in a manner of condominiums and driving ranges. While the dead weren't subject to the whims of their bodies—at least not to the same degree as their living counterparts—there were many couples and even lone souls who had no family to care for them and had no way to support themselves. These CMGs, as they were known, were a place for them to make friends, get the assistance they needed, and live out their deaths in comfort and peace.

Oscar and Felipe had died early enough to avoid such a place, having both the ability to make their own keep and younger generations of family to look after them. Still, from first glance the place didn't look as dull or repulsively  _yellow_ as the name made it out to be.

"Is this a retirement home, or a resort?" Felipe muttered as they passed through the main gates, looking around them in awe. Freshly manicured lawns stretched on either side of the polished sandstone path leading up to the towering glass doors. Palm trees rose like columns above them, leaves rustling in the early morning breeze.

On their left, the lawn was broken by a cart path that skirted around the edge of a full golf course; on their right, a pool the size of a standard lake was full of classes: water aerobics, synchronized swimming, basic classes for those who had never learned to swim in real life, and spirited rounds of water polo. Elders lounged by the pools, grouped around stoic chess players, or cheered for the polo teams.

" _Mira_ ,  _hermano_!" Oscar pointed to a large sign, spread between two palms. "They have a Singles Night." He laughed. "Maybe you can finally get  _una novia_."

"Very funny." Felipe pushed him, throwing him off balance and nearly sending him into a neatly-trimmed hedgerow. "At least I hada girl."

"Oh,  _sure_."

"I did! If that accident had never happened, I was going to—"

"What? Stutter at her over the groceries?" He sidestepped the next blow, turning to see his twin standing in the middle of the lane, arms crossed sullenly.

"You're just jealous because she liked me and not you." Oscar rolled his eyes. It was an old argument, one they brought up every few years when they felt like quarreling. It didn't  _mean_ anything now, after all this time. They were empty words, devoid of the feelings that, had they not died, might have made one or the other angry.

The front lobby was an atrium. Plants were everywhere; false ones, real ones, flowering ones and green ones. They climbed the walls behind the white marble of the front desk, they sat in pots around the sofas and chairs, they grew in terrariums along the elevator balconies, and they sat on every end table in the room. A fountain at the center of the lobby, directly beneath the largest skylights, was made to look natural with large river rocks covered in moss and little flowers. Water spilled down past the floor to a sunken pool where all manner of fish  _alebrijes_  swam, their multiple colors reflecting off the clear tiles.

They stood in line behind a slew of skeletons, some volunteers while others were like them, here to find old friends or family. Looking around, they stared in silent curiosity at the arches leading to hotel-esque hallways. Above one hall, a large banner declared " _Tu edad no es importa: ¡Todos los cursos universitarios son gratuitos_!" A large sign near one of the archways held a list of classes that would be held in the coming week along with sign-up sheets: baking, macramé, fencing, beginner's chess, cosmetology, and candle-making were only a few in a long list that included at least five different languages and a constructive course on how to make and repair clocks.

"Clockwork might be worth knowing," Felipe admitted. "It would have helped us with those timed fireworks we made, rather than having to count breaths."

"We're lucky that we didn't lose a finger," Oscar sighed.

"Ten is more than old enough to handle a little  _gunpowder_. We would have been fine." They were silent for a moment. "Hey Oscar… what if we added clocks to shoes?"

"Where would we put them? By the laces?" The woman in front of them slowly turned her head, watching them out of the corner of her eye as they began to talk animatedly, arguing the logistics of how and where to combine clock faces with leather boots. If the man behind them hadn't cleared his throat loudly, they might have lost their place in line.

"Hello! How may I help you today?" The woman at the front desk was young, the bright yellow of her shirt clashing with the blues and pinks of her skull markings.

"We're looking for Lucía and Fernando Garcia?" The woman's smile grew tight.

"Oh, yes. I know Doña Lucía well." She typed quickly into the computer. "She's got a very strong arm."

"She's passionate about certain things," Felipe agreed. "We've known her since we were children."

"I'm very sorry." The woman clapped a hand over her mouth. "No! I mean I'm sorry that—she's 20-15." She began to fan herself with a pamphlet for GED classes, her face a mask of humiliation as she pointed towards a set of metal doors. "Take the elevator to floor twenty and turn left at the end of the hallway."

" _Gracias_." They followed her finger, only to have the misfortune of picking an elevator carrying a recently released yoga class. Almost immediately, they were shoved to the back by bony elbows and rolled mats.

They finally managed to get someone near the front to press the button for the twentieth floor, only to be subjected to the torture of having to stop at  _every other floor_ on the way. To make matters worse, it seemed as if two people got on for every one person leaving the lift, pressing them cheek to cheek as everyone jostled for space.

"What's the occupancy limit?" Oscar grunted, nearly in his brother's arms by floor ten.

"It's not as though we die if we fall," Felipe pointed out.

"¡ _Niños, no quejas_!" An old lady smacked Oscar's hip with the handle of her parasol.

"¡ _Oye_!" They fought their way to the doors when their turn came, calling out civilities as they pushed grannies and grampies aside in their effort to escape the limbo they'd been forced to endure.

The hallway was wide and long, curving around the side of the circular tower. Plate glass windows made up the outer wall, offering a picturesque view of the Land of the Dead.

Many stories below them, roofs and neighborhoods spread out in densely packed squares, blocked off by roads and main intersections. Newer roads ran above and around them, trolleys and airlifts zipping past the windows as they carried their overflowing passengers to other parts of the city. Above their heads, the blue sky spread out, broken by the ever-growing skyscrapers and unfinished roadways of the newer generations.

"What's the number? 20-50?" Oscar rubbed his hip, turning away from the window and sliding his hem low enough to see if the bone had been cracked.

"20-15," Felipe corrected. He waited until his twin had readjusted his pants before taking the lead, counting the doors inlaid between large expanses of pink and brown pinstriped wallpaper. Tarnished plaques with numbers sat above the indentions in the wall, the numbers half-faded. As directed, they turned left at the end of the hallway and walked down a second, smaller hallway that held doors 20-10 through 20-15.

Door 20-15 looked as plain as the rest, the white paint chipped and discolored where a hole had been patched. Someone had tried to liven up the alcove with a faux wreath of yellow marigolds on the door, but even it looked tired compared to the endless stripes of the faded wallpaper.

"You know what,  _hermano_?" Oscar reached out and touched the edge of one silk flower. "I hope she's home."

"Sí, so do I." Neither moved to knock on the door.

"Why did we not call ahead?"

"We ran out of money."

"We never asked for a telephone number, though. We could have borrowed a phone."

"That worker was very happy to be rid of us. I think asking for a phone number would have been too much, no?"

"You're right." They both stayed still. "After you."

"You're closer to the doorbell." They looked at one another. "What?"

"We never came to visit… not in all the years she's been dead."

"She's not like Imelda."

"No, that's true." They looked back at the wreath. "She's worse."

"Maybe she won't be angry?"

"Maybe we can run faster. She lived longer than we did."

"That's right, we died  _way_ before her." Oscar gulped. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, you know?"

"We're already here."

"Sí… that's true."

"And the only other option is to take the lift back down."

"That's also true." He scratched his head.

"Which is worse?"

"Well… Lucía didn't just try to break my hipbone."

"She'll probably try to break our head-bones." He took off his hat, nervously fingering the brim. "Go ahead—knock."

"Ring the doorbell. That's what it's there for."

" _You_  ring it."

"I will." Oscar shuffled past him and touched it with the tip of his finger, jerking away when they heard a tinny chime from behind the door. It died away after a moment, leaving them alone with the sound of their breathing.

"¡ _FERNANDO! ¡EL TIMBRE!"_ They both jumped, grabbing instinctively for the other's forearm as the voice seemed to rattle the plate glass.

"Well," said Felipe weakly, "We're at the right place."

The door swung open suddenly, revealing a squat little man in a gray tracksuit. He squinted at them through thick square glasses, his toothless jaw working noiselessly and bald skull glinting in the light from the hallway. There weren't any markings on his skull other than three light blue dots in a triangle on each eye socket, rather like freckles. He shook as he leaned heavily on a metal cane, one hand holding the door for support while a calico  _alebrije_ wound around his bent knees, staring up at them before vanishing like a chameleon.

"Who're you?" he grunted after a moment. The twins didn't answer, staring in abject horror at the fuzzy slippers he wore. The lime green color! The faux fur sticking to his socks with static! The  _mediocre stitching_! "Hey!" He jabbed the cane in their general direction, nearly falling on his face. "You gonna talk or what?"

"I—uh—" Oscar forced himself to look away from the shoes before he was ill. "We're here to see Lucía."

"What 'choo want her for?"

"Señor Garcia, yes?" Felipe swallowed hard, forcing a nervous smile. "You may not remember us, but we're the Rivera twins—"

"Don't need no volunteers. She don't do nothing but bingo night. Go to another house." He shuffled back, shutting the door as he went. Oscar leapt forward, wedging his shoe in the crack before it shut completely. True to its namesake, the Rivera sole held fast without letting the shoe crush his foot. "Oh, peddlers, eh?" He grunted, shutting the door on his foot repeatedly. "Do I have to call the police? I'm not interested in buying!"

"No, Señor! We're Oscar and Felipe Rivera, from St. Cecelia?"

"I said I'm not—did you say St. Cecelia?" The door opened again and the man wobbled on his cane, turning up his hearing aid. There was an earsplitting screech of feedback, but he didn't seem to notice. "Tell me again who you were?"

"We're Imelda Rivera's  _hermanos_. Our papá was the stonemason?"

"Oh!" He stared at them thoughtfully. "I didn't know you volunteered here. I thought you made shoes."

"We're not volunteers. We've just come to—"

"¡¿ _QUIÉN ESTÁ EN LA PUERTA_?!" Without the barrier of the door, the voice was even louder.

"Oscar and Felipe Rivera!" Fernando shouted back, his voice echoing down the hallway.

" _WHAT_?!"

" _OSCAR AND FELIP—_ "

"Hang on! I'm coming!" Fernando turned and wobbled his way back inside, motioning for them to follow over his shoulder. They obediently stepped over the threshold, Oscar turning to close the door quietly and wondering to himself how  _anyone_ could live in a house where everything had to be screamed. Perhaps they were both so deaf that they didn't take notice.

The living room was tiny and cluttered. One wall was taken completely by a window, framed with frilled curtains in an off-blue with white lace. Shoved beneath it was a sofa with faded floral print; it was covered in Technicolor fur from the three calicos lounging on the cushions. A box TV was against the other wall, several editions of  _Muertos Monthly_ stacked on top to hold up the wire antennae. A bookshelf was crammed into a corner, a few novels pushed aside to hold lace doilies, knickknacks, and several vases of fake flowers.

A moth-eaten recliner was directly in front of the TV, a folding table beside it covered with empty tequila bottles, the remote, a half-eaten piece of cake, and playing cards. Fernando seated himself here with a thump and a sigh, using his cane to smack the TV until the picture cleared. It was an old western, the hero running his horse valiantly across the desert in a monochrome sunset.

"Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable," he offered, turning up the volume until the cowboy was just as loud as anyone else in the house.

"Don't get  _too_  comfy! It's almost time for  _La Doña_!" the disembodied voice quipped.

"You've seen every episode of  _Doña_!" he complained, shaking his cane at nothing in particular. One of the  _alebrijes_ rolled over, stretching in the sun and sneezing a plume of smoke.

"And you've seen that movie how many times now? I  _like La Doña_!"

"I  _like_  my movies!"

"Ay!" A thin woman—thinner than most—walked into the room, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She was stretched as tall as either of the twins, a braid thrown over her shoulder and falling to her waist in soft hues that ranged from dusky silver to pure white. Her cheekbones were decorated with green swirls and yellow dots, a vague replica of the marigold fields she had loved in life. Her homespun dress was a faded orange, blue flowers decorating the hem, squashed by the cinched white apron that draped over her skirts.

She took one look at them, pausing in the archway that separated the hall from the living room; they trembled in their boots as they waited for the hammer to fall. Imelda had a shorter temper, but Lucía had always been the one to hit hardest. She had grown up without a father, learning from a young age how to beat the drunkards out of her mother's bar every night at closing time.

Despite their constant quarreling, Fernando had been the first man in six generations to stick around and help with the family business rather than run off and leave the women to the work themselves. Her mother had been stout, a loud curser and a heavy hitter;  _she_ was even stouter, from what they remembered. It was true: she was like a sister to them… a sister that never missed when she swung a punch.

"You two!"

They braced for impact.

" _Mis gemeli-ti-ti-titos_! How are you?! It's been so long!"

"Eh?!" Beaming at them, she ignored their stunned faces and rushed across the room with her arms held wide. They barely managed to stay on their feet when she jumped up and grabbed them by the necks, bringing them down in a constrictor's embrace. It wasn't the impact they'd expected, but it knocked the breath out of them just the same.

"Lucía!" they managed to choke, coughing when she finally released them.

"I guess I haven't seen you since you died!" she gushed, running her thumbs over their chin markings fondly. "And you didn't come see me at all until now? Shame on you! I ought to beat you both where you stand!" But she continued to smile at them, mellowed by her happiness at seeing familiar faces.

"Come on, sit down! What are you doing, standing up like strangers? Ah, shoo!" She waved the dishtowel at the  _alebrijes_. "¡ _Quita_ ,  _quita_!" They scattered, one taking to the air while the others jumped and scurried to the back rooms. "Here," she cooed, brushing off the worst of the hair. "I'll bring you a piece of cake. Sit down! We're about to watch my favorite show, you know."

"We're not," Fernando argued, but she ignored him and pushed the twins onto the couch.

"Actually, Lucía," Oscar began, picking a piece of green fur from his pants, "We have to talk—"

"How is Imelda? She didn't come with you? That's odd. I haven't seen her since May, I think? We celebrated my birthday. You should have come; you'll come next year." They sighed; Lucía was a woman who talked first and listened second. It was better to let her talk herself out before trying to get a word in edgewise.

"Actually—"

"You know, Imelda? She works too hard. Even when we were young, I'd say "Imelda?" I'd tell her, "Imelda,  _escúchame_ : you can  _not_ spend your life making shoes every day! Come down to the bar and dance, like we used to! You need to get out and enjoy your youth before it's gone!" Even when we were both older, and our children were grown, I still told her that, you know? But she always said no. She didn't want to dance, not that I blame her. I mean,  _I_ was lucky, but Mamá said that I shouldn't pity her at all for what happened."

"About that, Lucía—"

"Mamá would say "Look at me! I had no husband, and I did fine! Look at you! Are you poor and destitute? No! I worked hard, and we have a roof over our heads, food to eat, clothes on our backs! That girl Imelda doesn't need a man to make a home. She can do very well by herself if she learns a trade." And she was right, you know? Of  _course_  Imelda always worked hard, but she worked  _extra_ hard making those shoes, you know?"

"You're right, but—"

"And you know? Imelda was  _lucky_. She had that  _beautiful_ daughter, and she had you two, and then she had that son-in-law of hers, oh—he was a good man. And his sister, so sweet! And then their grandchildren, such good children, always polite, never said a bad word to anyone. She was so lucky, and if she had lived long enough to see her great-grandchildren, I'm sure she would have been even luckier. Who needed old what's-his-name?"

"Héctor—"

" _Sí_ ,  _sí_ , Héctor." She shoved two plates with generous slices of cake into their hands, shaking her head. "I never thought  _he'd_ be the type to do that, you know? Now, his friend Ernesto? Oh, I couldn't  _stand_ that Ernesto. Do you know what he did to me? Did I ever tell you?"

"Oh, not the  _buñuelos_." Fernando rubbed his head. "For God's sake, not the  _buñuelos_! I've had to hear about those damned  _buñuelos_  for over fifty years!"

"When I was three years old, I had a coin to buy myself a treat. And you know what that boy, that no-good Ernesto de la Cruz did to me?!" They did know, of course, but they politely ate their cake and waited for her to finish her speech. They would have had more luck stopping a speeding train. "He cut in line and bought the last one! He did, you know! What was I supposed to do?!" The twins shook their heads sympathetically.

"You were both four years old!" her husband griped.

"If he had been taught to be a gentleman, it would never have happened! And then what did he do, later on? He convinced that boy Héctor to go on the road and we never heard from either one of them again! And  _what_ did he do for the town? Did we see a cent? No! Not until—" She crossed herself quickly. "The bell was divine punishment… for the  _buñuelos_. And everything else," she added as an afterthought. "He was a bad man! He took my snack, he stole that girl Imelda's husband—"

"He murdered Héctor—"

" _Sí_ , he murd—ah—eh—a?!" Lucía choked on her words, jaw hanging and eyes bugging until they were close to slipping from her sockets entirely. Fernando twisted in his chair, rapidly pressing the mute until the cowboy went silent and  _stayed_ silent. "¿ _Qué dijiste_?"

"Ernesto de la Cruz murdered Héctor." Oscar licked the icing from his fork.

"What?" She leaned onto the back of Fernando's recliner for support, a hand over her heart. "I don't… I can't… what?"

" _Sí_." Felipe swallowed. "Did you miss the Sunrise Spectacular? We were all on it."

"Imelda sang!" Oscar blurted.

"And danced.  _La Llorona._ " Everything was quiet, save for the crackling hum of the old TV. Finally, Lucía stirred enough to clear her throat, running a hand through the loose hair that had fallen out of her braid.

"Imelda? Our Imelda?" The twins nodded. Her eyes slid from one face to the other, searching for any sign of deceit. Suddenly, she sprang to life and whipped the dishtowel over her husband's head. " _ **TONTO**_ _! THE ONE TIME YOU MAKE ME LATE COMING FROM THE OFRENDA?! I MISS FRIDA, I MISS IMELDA ON TV_ — _"_

"Don't get angry with me!" he growled, using his cane to deflect the majority of the blows. "You're the one who just  _had_ to have that picture of the baby from the house! I didn't make you late!"

"I only want  _three_ things on  _Dia de Los Muertos_!" She held up her fingers, hissing as she counted them off. "I want to  _see_ the flowers in the living world, I want to  _see_ our granddaughter's  _ofrenda_ , and I want to  _see_ Frida's pre-show on TV. Next year, we are the  _first_ across the bridge and we're the  _first_  back! I—wait." She turned to twins, twisting the dishcloth threateningly in her hands. "Why were  _you_ on the Sunrise Spectacular? Was there a contest or something? You know Imelda doesn't like that sort of thing." Her eyes narrowed. "Were you two sneaking _music_?" she asked, as though the very word was something worth great censure.

"No! We had to help our great-great-grand nephew get Héctor's photo from Ernesto—"

"Which he had because he didn't want Héctor to put it on the  _ofrenda_ —"

"And Imelda got caught onstage, so she sang—"

"Then Ernesto grabbed her like  _this_ —"

"But she stomped his boot!"

"But then Miguel dropped the photo—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Miguel?" Fernando held up a hand. "That living boy? He was  _yours_?" When they nodded, he burst into laughter, his cane smacking against the recliner. "Good grief! What a family!"

"What?!" Lucía threw up her hands in a silent appeal. "We missed a  _living boy_ , too? What elsedid we miss?"

"Antonio was telling me about it at chess night." Fernando rubbed his chin. "The living boy on the Sunrise Spectacular, who had been running around the Land of the Dead since sundown. And he was your great-great-"

"Grand nephew," they repeated. "It was all over the news."

"Eh, I don't watch the news." He shrugged. "I'll miss my movies. It's not like anything happens anyway."

"Except living boys!" Lucía shook her head, holding up a finger. "Wait, wait.  _No entiendo_ : why would Ernesto murder Héctor? They were a team! They were going to 'be the most famous in all of Mexico'!" she quoted, her voice going deep and suave.

"Héctor broke up the team." Felipe shook his head sadly. "He wanted to come home."

"So Ernesto… poisoned him."

"Stole his songs."

"Stole his guitar."

"Stole his  _life_." Felipe cleared his throat. "And, so that's why we've come, Lucía. You see—"

" _Dios mío_ …." Lucía's hands flew to her cheeks. "It all makes sense!" She left the room entirely, returning a moment later and pacing to the front door and back, wringing the dishcloth.

"Does it?" Fernando looked from the twins to her and back again.

"Imelda stopped getting letters, and then Ernesto got famous right after! Do you remember? How I was so angry because I had thought Héctor had sold out?"

"Well, now that you mention it…"

"Remember? The record album? Ernesto's picture with the guitar? Héctor's guitar? And how he was singing all those private songs Héctor had written for Imelda and Coco? And how I said—ay! I'm ashamed to repeat it now! Because it all makes sense!" She was talking mindlessly, half-aware of her audience as she continued to pace around the tiny room. "Ernesto wouldn't have  _known_ what those songs were! He was never there! He would have just thought—you know?"

" _Cálmese_ , Mamá." Fernando waved weakly at her. "There's not much you can do about it now."

"I'm going to kill him." She stood still in the middle of the room, a strange look on her face. "I'm going to find Ernesto de la Cruz and knock his skull straight into Shantytown. He'll have to put out an ad to find it."

"You can't kill a dead man." She turned to face them, still twisting the dishtowel to within an inch of its life.

"He can't get away with this! Do you know how many nights I sat up because of that man Ernesto? How many times Imelda cried on my shoulders because that boy Héctor was gone?" She cut herself short, throwing her hands in the air. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that! Now look, he's gone and made me break a promise, too! He can't get away with this!" she repeated helplessly.

"Uh… I think he  _did_ ," Fernando retorted, snorting as he settled back in the recliner. "But why did Ernesto want that photo?" he asked the twins, reaching to tap Felipe on the knee. "Did it have evidence?"

"No. He just wanted Héctor to be completely Forgotten."

"That's… that's just cruel." Fernando frowned. "A man like that? From St. Cecelia? Shameful."

"Héctor was being Forgotten?" Lucía's brow furrowed. "As in…  _Forgotten_?"

"Yes." Oscar stacked his and Felipe's empty plates together, resting them on his knee. "Coco was the last one who remembered him, and she's…. Well."

"When we found him with Miguel, he could barely stand."

"Imelda had to help him give a blessing."

"He was all yellow and… cracked and…." Oscar shuddered. "Terrible."

"But did he? Was he?"

"Hmm?" That earned him a smack with the dishcloth, glasses sliding sideways on his face.

" _Was Héctor Forgotten_!?" Oscar resettled his glasses, eyes rolling in their sockets from the force of the blow.

"No! Miguel made it back in time. I don't know  _how_  considering the way he was, but… Héctor's fine."

"Oh, thank heavens!" She slumped down onto the arm of the recliner, a hand over her eyes. "To go through all that and  _then_ be Forgotten on top of it, just because Imel—" She trailed off, the hand slipping from her face. "Oh…  _Imelda_."

"Uh… yeah." Felipe looked sideways at Oscar, wondering if he, too, risked a blow. "That's why we came."

"Oh no!" She grabbed their hands, squeezing them until they heard their bones pop. "Imelda didn't do anything rash, did she?! She's alright, isn't she?"

"Well—" He grimaced, only to be forcibly shaken by the shoulders.

"What?! What! Tell me! What is it?! Is she hurt? Is she sick? Is she being Forgotten too!? What about the grandchildren?! Ernesto didn't hurt  _her_ , did he?! I'll drop another bell on him myself!"

"It's a— little late— for that," Felipe managed to say, teeth chattering in his skull.

"Then what? What?!" Fernando gently pushed his cane between them, separating his wife from Felipe long enough that he could draw a breath.

"Imelda is okay. I mean, she was," he croaked, when he could speak again. Oscar joined in and they spoke over each other, trying to get the story out as coherently as possible.

"You see, Héctor—"

"She was going to make boots—"

"He gave her flowers—"

"They went to look for him—"

"Well, she gave the flowers back—"

"Imelda wouldn't even come downstairs!"

"He got on the table and she threw a shoe—"

"And Victoria just made her angry—"

"And it was like that one time, when we were kids—"

"But Héctor hasn't come back—"

"And so, you see, we came to find you," they finished together, breathless. Lucía, who had been trying to follow both stories at once, rubbed her temples and winced.

"I… what?"

"Imelda isn't happy unless Héctor is there—" Oscar began again, patiently.

"But she won't let him  _be_ there!" Felipe finished.

"And…" Lucía narrowed her eyes. "Where is  _there_ , exactly?"

"At the house!"

"In her life! Look," Oscar stood, putting the plates on Fernando's TV table and reached for her hand. "You're the only one she'll listen to. You have to help us."

"What do you want meto do about it?" Lucía asked, somewhat puzzled.

"You need a  _curandera_ for that, boys," Fernando piped up. "Does wonders."

" _Please_." Felipe joined his brother. "Just come with us and talk to her. Maybe you can give us an idea… we just want to help her. She's unhappy." She looked between them, thinking quietly, and then chuckled.

"I could never say no to you two. Fine. I'll talkto her.  _Pero nada más_ ; I'm not vouching for that boy Héctor." She shook her finger at them. "He's got to do that himself, you know?"

" _Gracias_ , Lucía."

"That's all we wanted." She walked over to the bookshelf, moving a novel and unfolding a dusty green shawl. She shook it out before draping it across her shoulders, motioning for the twins to lead the way.

"Papá, I'm going out." Fernando shook his head at the three of them, jumping slightly as the invisible chameleon alebrije jumped into his lap before dazzling them in an array of blue-green fur, kneading the empty belly of the gray tracksuit.

"Take care, Mamá." He unmuted the TV. "And bring some more cake on your way back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: 
> 
> By the time I finished this, I realized that the part with Victoria, Rosita, and Héctor would be just as long. I’ve done very long chapters on other stories, but I’m trying to keep these chapters 8k or under if I can help it. So, we’ll see what happens to them next chapter. It may mean more chapters overall, but I’m not a fan of varying chapters lengths from a writing standpoint. (^_^)p


	9. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ladies look for Héctor, and find themselves down in the dumps... literally.

"¡ _Qué plaza maravillosa_!"

The plaza was packed to the brim, the dead taking advantage of the sunny weekend to enjoy a day of rest. Rosita and Victoria looked around, seeing nothing but crowds each way they looked. Victoria, realizing that they might be standing in people's way, dragged her aunt to the side and they stood with their backs to the thick, cracked stone of the archway, watching the scene.

The plaza was a large hexagon, squashed flat at the ends and wider in the middle to account for traffic flow. The top and the bottom of the hexagon were open, a twin arch spanning the far length just like one they stood against. These undecorated arches bridged the plaza between the two main thoroughfares, which led to the trolley stations and eventually wound their ways up, down, all around, all the way back to the Department of Family Reunions.

Surrounding the remaining four edges were buildings of all shapes and sizes; squat, reedy, crooked, cracked, sturdy, and pained every color so prevalent in the Land of the Dead. There were whitewashed businesses with glass windows, their upper stories branching to form overhangs. There were two and three story housing units, their plastered sides faded where they faced the sun and covered in vines or hanging planters.

Wrought iron tied all the buildings together, from the delicately shaped skulls on the window grates of the businesses' upper stories to the thin, rickety balconies skirting the apartments, their balustrades smiling down with empty teeth at the scorched sandstone of the plaza grounds. Metal chimneys, rusted and crooked, thrust into the sky; some smoked while others were dormant. Windows were open, snatches of conversation filtering out to join the clamor of the crowds.

The center of the plaza was occupied by an enormous four-tiered fountain made entirely of cantera stone. Its tiers were brown vases, glistening water spilling merrily down to the vast lower basin where sunken tile glittered. The wall surrounding the fountain was flat, just the right height to sit comfortably and wide enough to place parcels and purses without fear of their getting wet. Tired groups relaxed, watching children splashing in the edges of the fountain and conversing as they basked in the sun.  _Alebrijes_  pawed at the water, the more avian ones using the upper tiers as a birdbath.

Flowerboxes cut the cobblestone into shapes, rather than leaving it an open plaza space. Long and narrow, they were filled with vines and marigolds, with leafy trees rising out of the warm, dusty earth to offer a hint of shade. Ivy spilled onto the stone, clinging to the sides of the boxes.

It was along these 'paths' made by the flowerboxes that street vendors set up their shop. There were nowhere near as many tents and stalls as the  _tianguis_  offered, but there was still more than plenty to choose from. The lanes surrounding the fountain were congested with foot traffic, the usual bunch haggling prices with their favorite vendors while others shopped around, looking at what this week's selection had to offer.

There was even more window shopping to do around the businesses skirting the plaza's outer corners. They weren't for show: every glass window had brilliant, dazzling displays that caught the eye and garnered crowds, their front doors proudly standing open to invite would-be buyers inside.

Children crowded around the toy store, jabbering excitedly about action figures and dolls. Couples perused the glittering stones in the jeweler's display, talking about rings and finery. Women of all ages eyed the season's newest dress patterns on a skeletal mannequin, some shaking their heads at what appeared to be disappearing hems while others excitedly counted how many paychecks could buy the newest fad.

There were old-fashioned stores as well, catering to the 'vintage' customers who had been around since Mamá Imelda's time—and before. Beautiful, fashionable young ladies giggled before the hatter's shop, looking at the newest style of peacock feathers for the upcoming winter season. Various sounds—not all of them welcoming—came from a busy  _alebrije_ grooming salon. There was a group of men reclining in wooden chairs before the open doors of the bar, leaning back to shout new orders to those inside and belching before resuming their talk.

Food was everywhere. It was being served from bikes, beneath umbrellas, and even out of a few kitchen windows. People ate where they stood, or sat on long metal benches beside silent book readers if they couldn't secure a place at the fountain. Gangs of teens hopped from place to place, heavy beats leaking from their headphones as they laughed and made mischief, being shooed by a mother or grandmother to another corner and making their usual rounds. People were everywhere, and with so much to see and do, it was quite overwhelming for two women who had come from a small town of no consequence.

" _Mira_ , Victoria!" Rosita was beside herself with that small-town excitement, pointing from one thing to the next as soon as her eyes settled on it. "Look at all the  _ambulantes_!"

"I see them," she replied dryly, staring with some interest at a textile cart full of bolts of bright cloth.

"And—oh, do you  _smell_ that?" She sniffed the air, rising on her tiptoes to catch the savory fragrance. "Delicious! All that food! Oh, oh! Are those  _herbs_ for sale? And seeds, too!?" She started towards a garden cart, only to fall silent in admiration as a woman passed before them. "Victoria,  _mira_ —that woman's  _rebozo_! I want one just like it!" she whispered, starstruck.

"It's very nice, yes." Victoria pushed further against the arch as a family passed along with a giant  _alebrije_ , bows on its scaly tail. " _Dios mío_ ," she murmured, shaking her head. "And I thought Pepita was bad."

"Why don't we ever come here?" Rosita asked, still looking around before craning her head to stare up at the trolley lines overhead. "Mamá Imelda acts as if market day is such a chore, and it's so much closer than the  _plazuela_ , I don't see why we never—"

"You know why we don't come." Victoria unstuck herself from the arch, grabbing her hand as she began to weave through the crowd. She narrowed her sights on the bar, taking the roofer's advice to try there first. "We weren't allowed to come to the plaza because of the—" She stopped, Rosita plowing into her and nearly knocking her on her face.

"What?" Rosita frowned at her niece, who was frozen with an expression that could only be described as  _uncomfortable_. The words fell on the air, cut by the sharp note of a violin.

" _Music_." Rosita's eyes widened, clutching Victoria's upper arm as the two froze before the fountain. A ragtag group of mariachis, all skeletons of varying age, bounced up as the crowd parted for them. The violinist played again, turning heads as the people nearest them fell silent. A couple of children clapped as they assembled, drawing more people from the businesses to stand at the edges of the growing audience. The two women found themselves suddenly surrounded; unwilling spectators unless they chose to elbow their way out, and fast.

"Hey, it's Rafael!" A chubby, round-skulled man hopped onto the fountain wall, bowing to the crowd. While he wasn't handsome in any sense—at least, not like Ernesto de la Cruz—the middle-aged mariachi had a sharp suit and bright eyes, sparkling below an amicable grin. The streaks of white in his hair were hidden beneath his hat, shown only when he swept it off dramatically in another bow.

"Rafael!" One of the parasol ladies waved to him. "Sing an old one for us!" He winked at her, clearing his throat and nodding to his band. The guitar strummed, the violin hummed, and then he was singing a ballad older than either of them.

" _Oh_ ," Rosita breathed, covering her mouth with both hands. They fell silent, swaying with the crowd as they listened to the sad, mournful words of a love gone wrong. The gentlewoman who had requested the song pulled a handkerchief from her dress, dotting at the pink and purple swirls near her eye sockets. Everyone fell entranced by the dulcet baritone.

It seemed over almost before it had begun, and the two women looked at each other with the startling realization that they'd  _listened_ to a whole song without even trying to run away or stop their ears! Rosita's jaw trembled, but neither made to move when the crowd broke into wild applause.

"Any more requests?" The singer asked politely, laughing when immediately hands shot up and requests were called out by a multitude of voices. "You," he pointed to a little girl, hopping around like a crazed rabbit in an attempt for her tiny hand to be seen around all the grown-up ones. She stiffened in place when she was called out, her mother gently urging her forward. The singer knelt as best he could on the fountain, smiling. "What can I sing for you today,  _Señorita_?"

" _Cielito Lindo_!" she managed to squeak. He nodded, rising back to full height.

"You heard her, boys!" The musicians cheered and leapt into the song, the crowd joining in. They listened in amazement, too startled to move away; they felt torn between the necessity of being here, and the dark shadow of Mamá Imelda's anger looming over their shoulders. It seemed as though by listening to this man, they were giving into a dark temptation.

 _Ay, ay, ay, ay,_  
Canta y no llores,  
Porque cantando se alegran,  
cielito lindo, los corazones!

"Victoria!" Rosita's voice was hushed and shocked. "Your foot!" Victoria snatched up her skirts, as if her foot was a live thing that she couldn't control. They both stared down at the boot, tapping in time to the slow rhythm of the love song. It seemed separate from her; she wasn't  _trying_ to tap it, but here it was, happening anyway.

"I—" Victoria let down her skirts, crossing her arms defiantly. "It's not forbidden any longer, after all," she said to no one in particular, her eyes locked on the singing man. She seemed unsettled by the whole experience, though stood as tall and still as one of the mannequins in the storefront. "After all…" she repeated, more to herself.

"After all," Rosita agreed, tapping at her chin. "We saw Mamá Imelda do it… right?"

"Right."

"And she's not here," Rosita added. "She'll never know, unless we tell her."

"I'm not going to tell her," Victoria replied ostentatiously, turning up her nose. "Are  _you_?" she said after a moment, cutting her eyes at her companion.

"Oh, no!" Rosita giggled nervously. "Tell her that we went to the plaza looking for Papá Héctor? Not in a million years!" They were silent as the song finished, the crowd wailing the last syllable long after the music died. The applause was even louder this time, filling up the plaza from end to end. The band didn't pause for another request, but jumped straight into a toe-tapping, skirt-swishing beat that had the group breaking up into dancing pairs, right in the middle of the square.

"¡ _Recuerdo este_!" Rosita laughed, clapping her hands in glee. "I haven't heard this song in years!"

"And I haven't heard it at all," Victoria remarked. Now that the crowd had dispersed, they should be heading on to look for their patriarch. But she couldn't pull them away now, not when her aunt blossomed like one of her beloved garden flowers. The years seemed to melt away before her eyes as Rosita turned young and sprightly, giving her foot a little tap, and then another, as her face lit up in joy.

"I used to love this song… oh," she sighed, a dreamy look stealing over her face. "I used to dance to it when I was younger. It seems so wrong now…" Her hips caught the beat and she moved side to side, closing her eyes. "It seems wrong, but I  _like_ it!" She held her hands to her chest and twirled once, giggling.

Victoria laughed, too. It was a bright, happy song that seemed to fit Rosita well. She had never grown up with music, having been brought up under the strict Rivera rules. But she knew Mamá Coco had met Papá Julio when dancing in St. Cecelia, and she had heard stories of how hard it had been for Julio and Rosita to give up their music entirely. It was a testament to how much they loved their family, after all.

But now, to see Rosita dancing and happier than she'd  _ever_ seen her—which was saying something— perhaps it wasn't a very good rule.

"Come along," Victoria called once the song ended. "We still have to find him. We can't spend all day lollygagging around."

"Alright." Rosita looked around them. "You go that way, and I'll this way, and we'll meet by the food carts. That way if neither of us finds him, we can look for that old woman instead."

"That's a good idea." With it settled they split up, Victoria to the left and Rosita to the right. Victoria followed her thoroughfare method, asking vendors and shoppers alike if they'd seen any sign of a man who looked like her grandfather. Most of them shook their heads, though a few vendors knew him by sight and pointed her in the direction of several places he  _could_ be. She checked the bar, all the men shaking their heads. She even took off her head, using her arm as an extension and standing on her tiptoes to look on the ledge that separated the back of the bar from the main street—the "wall" the roofer had spoken of.

She scoured the fountain, asking for him. All along the businesses she went, fastidiously asking workers if they'd seen him. She even knocked on a door or two, describing him to the women that leaned over the balconies to look down on her. All of them shook their heads, knowing  _who_ he was, but not  _where_ he could be found. Most were sympathetic and helpful, offering a list of places they'd seen him outside of the plaza. Most, unfortunately, were places near the jail where they housed delinquents on  _Dia de Los Muertos_.

"Maybe he's already been Forgotten," more than one person said with a can't-be-bothered shrug. Victoria scowled at them, but a small part of her remembered, long ago, a frantic young man stopping her on the street to shove a photo in her face. Asking her if she'd seen his older brother, and her faint memory of a yellowed skeleton wobbling his way towards Shantytown. She'd shrugged too, shaking her head, and he'd gone on his way.

It made her cringe to recall it.

She found a frazzled, morose Rosita waiting for her on one of the benches. She sat down next to her, taking off her wig and patting her hair down before wiping phantom sweat from her brow. One look at her aunt told her all she needed to know, and more; no words were wasted between them.

"Well," she said quietly, quoting her uncles, "back to square one." Rosita took a deep breath, wiping her palms on her dress.

"We've got to find Abuelita now," she said firmly. "But… I was afraid to start without you. What if she's not here?"

" _Entonces_ … we try again, on the other thoroughfare." She stood, sitting her hair firmly on her skull. "Come on; we won't get anywhere just sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves. I'm sure Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe are probably home by now, wondering where we are."

"You're right." Rosita climbed to her feet, cracking her neck before letting Victoria lead the way. To their surprise, they only had to ask one food vendor about Abuelita; the woman took one look at them before pointing to the opposite end of the line, where a rickety homemade cart sat.

" _Gracias_." The line of vendors seemed to stretch forever, the two of them excusing themselves as they cut through the center of lines and hurried around parked strollers, trying to reach the end as fast as possible. When they arrived, they found the cart abandoned, the holey umbrella shading an empty barstool. There was no sign saying if it was closed for the day; they looked around them, at the lines of hungry skeletons in front of the carts, the tired resting their bones on the benches, the children splashing in the fountain. There was no sign of anyone matching the description of a  _memela_ -selling granny.

"Bah!" Victoria made a sound of disgust, rubbing the bridge of her nose. " _Por Dios_ , can we have  _one_ thing go right today?"

"Maybe she just walked off…." Rosita leaned over the cart to peer inside, only to scream and nearly lose her head, whapping it against the umbrella as she recoiled. " _Dios_   _m_ _í_ _o_!"

"What? What?!" Victoria stepped forward, gasping as a head of hair popped up on the opposite side of the cart.

"What yourself!" a dry voice snapped, and with all the snaps and pops of old age, a teeny little woman climbed onto the barstool. She settled herself with a grunt, cracking her neck. "It's getting to where an old woman can't take a five-minute rest without someone nearly spitting on her." She narrowed her eyes at them, taking off her bifocals and rubbing them on the hem of her shawl. She held them up to the light, peering at the faded lenses before resettling them above the smooth green stripes on her cheeks.

"A-a-are you Abuelita?" Rosita asked, still shaken. "What were you doing down there on the ground?"

"Taking a rest, like I said! What, you got some of them flowers stuffed in your earholes?" She patted her powdered bun, dusting off her hands before resting her elbows on her knobby knees. "Who are you, anyway? You're not from around here; at least, I've never seen the likes of you. You," she added in the same breath, pointing to Victoria with a gnarled finger. "You need to eat a little,  _flaquita_. Just because you're dead doesn't mean you can't take care of yourself."

"You didn't answer her question," Victoria snapped, crossing her arms. "Are you or are you not Abuelita the  _memela_  seller?"

"Depends on who's asking, little missy."

"I'm Rosita," Rosita said politely, elbowing Victoria with a smile. "Rosita Rivera, and this is—"

"Wait, Rivera?" She blinked at them, mouth falling open before breaking into a wide grin. "Ah, are you Imelda?" she asked Victoria, eyes twinkling. "Can't stay away from him three days, eh? Not that I blame you; he may be a bit of a  _tramposo_ , but he's certainly a charmer!" She winked, clicking her nonexistent tongue.

"I'm not Imelda!" Victoria blurted rudely, taken aback by the old woman's tone. She cleared her throat, feeling hot despite her inability to blush. "That manyou're talking about is my  _grandfather_!"

"Eh!?" Abuelita snorted. "Héctor is your grandpa? He's an  _abuelito_?" She laughed now, hard and loud. "What a bum!"

"Huh?" Rosita looked between Abuelita and Victoria in utter confusion. "A bum?"

"What are you, his daughter-in-law?"

"N-no! I'm actually his… son-in-law's sister…." Rosita faltered, plucking nervously at the flowers in her hair.

"Well, even so!" She shook her head. "What a deadbeat!" she chuckled, with as much affection as if she'd said 'that darling boy!'. "He's got more family besides a wife and he  _still_ nearly gets himself Forgotten…  _ay_!" She fell silent, rubbing her chin. "Alright, alright: what did he do?"

"What—what?"

"To screw things over with his wife." She crossed her arms, the shawl slipping from her left shoulder, which was a tad shorter than the right. "What did he do?"

"Well…." Victoria looked at Rosita, frowning. "Do you mean originally?"

"Or recently?"

"This week,  _mija,_  this week." The two women shared another look.

"Er—" Rosita shrugged, grimacing. "We don't really know?"

"Mamá Imelda wouldn't tell us."

"She only said that she never wanted to see him again."

" _Never_ again?" Abuelita sighed. "My, my."

"He's banned from the house," Rosita explained.

"We can see him if we want to, as long  _we_ go to  _him_." Victoria winced. "I think it must have been bad… even before—" She trailed off, staring down at her boots. "I can't imagine what he must have done."

"I can." Abuelita sounded unsurprised. "That boy… he popped off like a firecracker on market day, running after her. I've never seen him so intent on something; it seemed like nothing in the world was more important than making sure he spoke to her. Not that I saw  _her_ , mind you." She sighed again. "He's a good boy, but… he's an idiot." She crossed her arms, breathing long and slow out her nose as she studied them. "So, you two are off to set the record straight, huh? Going to break the bad news? Or does he already know?"

"He hasn't been back," Rosita murmured, wringing her hands. "There's no way of telling if he knows or not. He's not been gone this long before… at least, not since he and Mamá Imelda started to talk again."

"Ah." Abuelita smiled, a genuine smile this time. "You're getting  _worried_  about him."

" _S_ _í_ ,  _Se_ _ñ_ _ora_."

"No, no: no  _señora_. There are no formalities over the  _memelas_." She opened her cart, looked between them, and pulled out two foil-wrapped  _memelas_. "Here. For you—ah! No money!" She waved Victoria's hand away from her pocket. "You look like you need the food,  _flaquita_. And the first one is always on the house." She watched them as they stared down at their food. "What do you say, girls?" she prodded in a true maternal fashion.

"Oh!  _Gracias_ , Abuelita," Rosita said quickly.

" _Gracias_ …?" Victoria lifted the edge of the foil, steam spiraling into the air.

" _De nada_." She closed the lid, adjusting her glasses again. "Now… I will tell you where to find your grandpa,  _mija_. But in return, you will tell me something."

"If I can," Victoria agreed. Rosita took a bite of her food, gasping around her mouthful when the heat burned and winking tears from her eyes. Abuelita slumped further on her stool, head sinking between her shoulders as her eyes gleamed knowingly.

"Tell me about your grandma. What is this woman like, who married our Héctor? What kind of woman did he choose?" Victoria blew on her food as she thought.

"Mamá Imelda? She's… powerful."

"And sweet," Rosita gushed, once she could talk.

"Firm—"

"But gentle—"

"Stubborn."

"But charitable. She's got a good heart."

"And she's  _loud_."

"But she's so  _nice_ , when she wants to be." They looked at one another, and Rosita cleared her throat. "And she can sing, too. So  _beautifully_. If she would do it more often... the birds would be jealous."

"That's it." Abuelita nodded slowly, a warm grin creeping over her face. "That's it exactly. That's  _just_ the kind of woman I figured. I can't  _wait_  to meet her!" She clapped her hands twice, straightening on the stool. "I need a favor _._  I want you to promise me that you'll help him get back into her good graces. I want to meet this Imelda before I'm Forgotten, and if he's got to do it by himself… well, there's nothing to be said there. Do it for Abuelita, okay?"

"Of course!" Rosita grinned. "¡ _Haremos lo mejor posible_!"

* * *

 

"Julio was right." Rosita clung to Victoria's skirts, trying to keep her shoulders from scraping against the sooty walls of Shantytown's outer ridges. "Even if we  _are_ ghosts, this place is haunted."

"Nonsense." Victoria paused on a creaky stair, testing its weight before shaking herself free of her aunt and leaping down the last four. She hit the ground, wobbling on her boots as her knees threatened to separate. "Though I do think it's easier to fall apart down here, that's for sure." Rosita squealed as she hurried down the stairs, the creaking ominously close to cracking. She steadied herself on the railing, only for it to snap on the last stair and send her stumbling. She righted herself before she hit the ground, looking at her hand before wiping the dust on her skirts.

"Oh, why would he even come  _down_ here?!" she lamented, shivering as she looked up at the graffiti of the fallen angels. "He's not being Forgotten; why would he ever come back to this awful place?!"

"I guess we'll have to ask him when we find him." For all her bravado, she backed against Rosita when an old skeleton passed, ageless in his infirmity and hobbling on one leg with the help of a crutch. He paused when he saw them, taking in their pristine clothes and gleaming white bones before raising his woolen hat.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said politely, in the voice of a refined gentleman.

"G-good afternoon," they replied, clutching each other's hand nervously. "Have you seen Héctor?" Victoria managed to ask, swallowing hard and trying not to look at the missing bones below his knee. She looked him in the eyes, only to see that his right socket was so shattered, the glass orb was having a hard time staying in place. She forced herself to not look away.

"Héctor? Yeah!" He limped in a circle, pointing the way he came. "If you follow this bridge all the way out, take a left before the dock. He's at Chicharrón's old place. You, eh…" he looked at them more carefully. "You two aren't planning on staying for long, are you?" They shook their heads fearfully. "Good, good…." He turned back with a sigh. "You'll start looking like me if you hang around here. Soon, you won't be able to climb those anymore." He nodded to the stairs.

"I'm… I'm sorry," Victoria muttered, unsure of what she could say. Rosita covered her mouth, unable to speak. "Is there… is there anything we can do?"

"What? Oh, no." He shook his head quickly, loose eye rattling against the edges of his socket as he smiled grimly. "Once you're stuck down here, it's not long…. Don't worry!" he laughed, seeing the tears swim in Rosita's eyes. "I ain't got nobody left here worth crying over. It's about time I left, anyway. Who knows? Maybe I'll get my leg back." He lifted his hat again. "Goodbye, ladies."

"Goodbye," Rosita whispered between her fingers. They watched him limp into the shadows, listening until the  _ker-thunk_  of his crutch was indistinguishable from the dripping of water somewhere behind them. "Oh… that poor man."

"They take it so well…." Victoria shivered, rubbing her arms. "Why do you think that is? I'm not ready to die again."

"Neither am I." Rosita agreed. "Maybe… maybe it's because anything would be better… than this." She looked up, where the lights of the city faded into twilight long before reaching them at the bottom of the pit. "I can't imagine being here, alone, with no one you could call family…"

"Knowing that no one remembers you—"

"Waiting—" They huddled together, arm to arm, fingers laced.

"C-come on. Let's find him and get out of here." Victoria unglued herself first, tugging Rosita along by the hand. They passed under the arch, the dull thumps of their shoes on the grimy earth turning into the creak of slime-covered boards.

"Oh… oh…." Rosita whimpered in mingled pity and fear as they passed the bungalows, some empty and abandoned while others had yellow-gray skeletons seated before them, getting on as best they could.

"It's alright," Victoria assured her, speaking to herself as well. "There's no one here that can hurt us." It was true; even if someone could overpower them, they were so weak from being Forgotten that they would have been easy to overtake. "They're just people… like Héctor was."

"I know, I—" Rosita stopped, jerking Victoria's hand off her wrist by mistake.

"What?" Rosita didn't answer, stepping across a gap in the bridge and picking something up off the ground. She turned, holding it up to the light; a little doll in a homespun dress, black button eyes glinting and red yarn mouth smiling up at the city. Her cloth body was covered in dusty handprints, her ragged edges proof of years of love. "Tía…" Victoria took her hand back, reattaching it, and Rosita's arm fell limply as she stared at the doll. "Tía Rosita, come on," she urged. "I know… but we can't do anything about it now."

" _Why_?"

"I… I don't know." She turned away, sighing. "I suppose… there are probably orphans. She might have never had anyone." Rosita didn't answer, but hugged the doll close to her chest.

" _No es justo_ …." She squeezed the doll tighter. " _Pobrecita_ … There shouldn't… they're just  _children_."

"It happens to everyone, Tía." Victoria held out her hand over the gap. "We have to hurry. The sun is setting." Neither one of them wanted to be here in the dark, not again. It was bad enough in the perpetual dusk of the daytime. Rosita looked at the doll, hesitated, and then placed it reverently upright against the side of the empty home. She folded its little arms over its torso, hands in its lap, and then kissed its dusty forehead before joining her niece once more.

They heard Héctor before they saw him, the faint sounds of a halting melody floating up the docks. The Forgotten that sat outside their homes listened to it, some halfheartedly tapping along and conversing quietly in the breaks between the unsung stanzas. Despite the seemingly peaceful atmosphere, with the lapping of water against the boards and the occasional muffled croak of toad  _alejibres_ , there was an unsettling thickness to the air. Something in the perpetual odor of musty cloth and mold, along with the breezes rattling the loose boards of the shanties, made it seem anything but serene. It had the same uncomfortable tightness of a held breath, of a hospital waiting room, of the foyer of a funeral parlor.

When they turned the corner, Victoria pointed; just ahead, a familiar straw hat was bobbing in time to the music. They picked up the pace, their footsteps barely audible between the sounds of the water, the muffled rhythm of the city above them, and the halfhearted strumming. Héctor was alone in front of one of the shanties, lounging in an empty chair before a dented card table. Drained tequila bottles and crushed glass littered the deck around him, an eerie wind echoing from the empty, lonely house. His back was to them, his feet propped on the scratched surface of the table and a banged-up guitar in his hands, fine-tuned despite the ugly chinks in its rough wood.

They stood a few yards from him, listening to the halting melody. Even unfinished, the tune had a haunted, exhausted aura that seemed to fit the setting. Every so often he would switch a note or two, change the pace or cut out a piece entirely, starting it over from the beginning. Each time they heard it, it seemed that much more depressing; finally, it sounded like a proper dirge rather than one of his usual songs.

Victoria scowled, narrowing her eyes at the back of his head; she reached down in a very Imelda-esque move, leaning one hand on Rosita as she unlaced, unbuttoned, and tore off her left boot in three clean movements. She hefted its weight, creeping up behind him as quietly as she could. If her uneven gait creaked on the boards, Héctor didn't notice it. Rosita was too stunned at her niece's change of mood to call out any proper warning, her mouth falling open as she realized what was about to take place.

The  _thwack_  of Victoria's sole against his skull echoed across the water.

"¡ _Qué diablos_!" Startled and in pain, Héctor leapt to his feet, guitar falling to the ground with a clang as his hands clapped to the back of his head, upsetting his hat. "What's the big idea?!" Now angry, he whirled on them to see who'd interrupted his solitude. "Why don't yo—you?" He paused, recognizing Victoria even in the dull gloom of the evening. "What are…" he trailed off, looking past her to see Rosita.

" _Hola_ ," she said timidly, wiggling her fingers at him. He shook his head, prodding his skull as he visibly relaxed.

"That's not very funny," he complained. "That  _hurt,_ you know."

"I meant for it to!" Victoria declared, brandishing the boot a second time. He cowered back defensively, sliding the chair between them with his foot. "Where have you  _been_!?" she hissed.

"H-huh?" He looked from her face to the shoe, offering a simpering smile. "I, er—I'm not sure—"

"I thought you were a lot of things, Héctor Rivera," Victoria punctuated each word with a small thrust of her boot. "But I never thought you were a  _coward_!" His face fell.

"Well, that's your fault, isn't it?" He spun the chair around, ignoring his hat on the deck and lifting the guitar back into her lap.

"What?" Rosita came forward now, as Victoria retied her shoe on her foot.

"That's the majority vote, no? Héctor the coward." He strummed the guitar quickly, plucking a few sullen notes.

"Oh,  _I_ don't think you're a coward," Rosita assured him, dragging one of the two remaining folding chairs around the table and sitting beside him. She reached a hand out to pat his shoulder, but he shrugged her away.

"Imelda does," he muttered. "I guess that's what matters. I'm nothing but a manipulating, lying coward who never came home." His face darkened and he forced a few more jarring notes from the guitar before scowling. "Bah!" He threw it onto the table, crossing his arms in a good, old-fashioned pout. "Can't get the damn thing to sound right," he grumbled to no one in particular, his manners fading in his bad mood.

"It's because you're down here in the dark!" Victoria snapped, taking the last chair and crossing her arms as well. "Well," she continued crossly, picking up the hem of her skirt to dust some of the Shantytown soot from it. "I admit I didn't know where you'd be, but I would have never guessed to find you down here feeling sorry for yourself." Rosita flashed her a warning look, but said nothing.

"And so what if I am?" Héctor sat up, scowling across the table at her. "I've got plenty to feel sorry for!"

"If there's one thing I hate, it's people who mope around and cry instead of trying to better themselves." Victoria glared at him. "I never took you for a quitter."

"I'm not quitting anything!"

"Then where have you been all week? I thought you were winning Mamá Imelda back!"

"I don't—I couldn't—oh, what would  _you_  know about anything?" He waved her off, hunching his shoulders as he ran a hand through his already mussed hair.

"You know what I know?" Victoria stood up, pointing ominously at him. "I  _know_ that Mamá Imelda hasn't been herself. I  _know_ that she's been trying to put on a brave face, but everyone can see right through it. I  _know_ that she's hurting, and I  _know_ that you're the one to blame for it! What I want to  _know_ is just  _what_  you plan to do about it!"

The entire tirade, Héctor slunk lower and lower in his chair, coiling in on himself like a wounded, frightened animal. Just one looked at the pained guilt evident on his face had Victoria feeling bad for raising her voice, but she didn't dare let him see that weakness. He was still tricky, sly Héctor and even if he knew he was in the wrong, she couldn't put it past him to elude her questions if he saw an opening. When he answered, it was in the tiniest voice imaginable.

"I… I don't know." She threw her hands in the air, turning and striding the length of the dock to cool down. "I've tried everything I could think of, but… she doesn't want to see me. I've never seen her so—she said such—" He faltered, bowing his head with closed eyes. "I  _am_ a coward. I'm afraid to go back."

"…Afraid?" Victoria turned, looking at him over her shoulder; her expression slipped, frown easing as she took in the pitiable sight. He barely nodded.

"If I go back and she—" His cleared his throat. "I don't think I'll be able to take it. It tears me apart to see her that way." Rosita reached out again, this time patting his hand as it rested on his knee.

"Oh," she murmured in sympathy, "Oh, Papá Héctor…." He raised his head, looking at her in astonishment.

"What?" Rosita smiled, taking his hand in hers and squeezing.

"Papá Héctor," she repeated warmly. "Don't be afraid."

"P-Papá?" His jaw trembled and he looked away, standing. " _Ahem_ … in any case..."

"I don't see what's to be afraid of," Victoria said, moving to stand behind Rosita. "It's not as though you've never seen her angry before."

"It's true," Rosita agreed. "Mamá Imelda does have a  _little bit_  of a temper." Héctor stared at them uncomprehendingly before shaking his head, hands fluttering.

"No, no, not  _angry_." He huffed. "If only it were that simple." The two women shared a glance.

"What, then?"

"She—" He turned his back to them, silent. "She—" He tried again, with little success. "Your Imelda is not my Imelda," he sighed, waving a hand in the air. "I don't know how to explain it. No… you know what?" He began to pace, his feet automatically making turns at the edge of the docks without having to be checked. "I don't get it! This whole thing, it's  _my_ fault. I know that! But then, why did she say…? Why would she ever think that—? Ay, ¡ _No entiendo_! ¡ _Mi_   _Imelda es fuerte_! She would  _never_ blame herself for something like this! I don't know what happened, but—I just don't get it! She… changed somehow!"

"Blame herself?" Victoria shook her head. "Héctor, what are you  _talking_ about?"

"Why does she not just blame Ernesto and me? That's what she should do. That's what she did, I thought!" He continued to pace as if they weren't there; it was clear he'd gone through the same arguments with himself many times. "What am I supposed to do? I can't just tell her that she's wrong, but… she's wrong! What'll I do? Was is something I said? I can't remember what I said back then! I just—"

"Papá Héctor, please!" Rosita grabbed him as he passed; she tried to make him sit down, but he just stood in place, staring at his feet. " _Cálmese_ ,  _por favor_ ; you're going to hurt yourself at this rate." She smoothed his bandana before rubbing his arms in what was clearly supposed to be a helpful, comforting motion. He paid no mind to her efforts.

"All I did was for them. Everything… it was all for her and Coco." He lifted his head, looking into her eyes as though he could find some kind of answer there. "Why does she blame herself? Why does she  _still_  not understand?" Rosita shook her head.

"Understand what?"

"I  _had_ to go." When she said nothing, he sighed in frustration. "I  _had_ to. We were barely scraping by; if Tía hadn't left me the house, we would have had live with her parents. I didn't know a trade and there were no jobs. Music was all I had. If I stayed, I would have been a failure." His voice broke. "What kind of man can't provide for his own family?"

"Héctor—"

"I thought that if I could see the world, I would get inspiration and I'd… we were going to live like kings!" He closed his eyes, seeing his imagined future. "I was going to give her everything I knew she deserved. But… I couldn't even keep a stupid promise. I couldn't give her a husband. I couldn't give Coco a father." He shook his head, finally slumping down into the chair and covering his face. "She was always better off without me."

"She is  _not_ better off without you!" Victoria gaped in astonishment as her aunt spoke sharply. Rosita used her girth to her advantage, physically lifting the bones before her until he was sitting up properly. "Now, it's all well and good to feel bad for making a mistake, but you're putting words into Mamá Imelda's mouth! Did she tell you that?"

"Oh, come on!" He was rewarded with two slaps in quick succession, one on each cheek.

" _You_  come on!" Rosita huffed. "Victoria's right. You're doing nothing but feeling sorry for yourself, for something that happened almost 100 years ago." Héctor didn't reply. "Look: you said that she's changed. Does this mean you don't love her anymore?"

"Of course not!" He puffed up with indignation.

"So, you  _do_ love her?"

"I  _never_  stopped loving her." He grew deathly serious. "But things are different now."

"What do you mean?"

"The last time I spoke to her I realized that I can't ask her to go back to the way we were before. It's not fair to either of us. She's not the same and…. I'm not, either." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I love her more than life itself, but I don't know if she even still feels the same way. I don't know what to do, but… neither of us can pretend that a whole lifetime just didn't happen. Well, it  _literally_ didn't happen for me, but you know that I spent a lot of time here by myself. I didn't stop growing up just because I stopped aging."

"She called you the love of her life! Of course she still loves you!" Rosita answered. Héctor looked at her quietly, patiently, but not with any hint of belief in her words. "Look, do you think she would have danced around onstage to save your photo if she didn't care about you? She was so worried when we thought you were disappearing! And she's making you boots because she doesn't want you to be barefoot anymore!" She didn't mention that Imelda had put the boots away, out of sight.

"Yes, I—"

"Just come home with us, Papá Héctor!" she begged. "We'll… we'll think of something! It'll all work out, you'll see." Héctor smiled, but shook his head.

"No."

"But—" He held up a hand and she fell silent, an imploring look on her face.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm ready to… move on. And maybe you're ready for me. And maybe she is." He pointed to Victoria. "The whole Land of the Dead could be ready… but Imelda isn't." He cleared his throat, taking her hands between his and patting them affectionately. "She... well, I just know she's not. I know my Imelda; when she's ready, she'll come to me."

"But how on earth is she supposed to find you if you never come back?" Victoria asked. Héctor looked at her in surprise.

"Well, you found me pretty easily, didn't you?" She had no comeback to that. "I'm always around," he added with a shrug. "She knows me too, after all. I think she'd know where to look."

" _Prometeme_." Rosita frowned at him. "Say that you'll be ready when she comes. Say that you'll wait for her."

"I  _promise_. With all my heart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, another chapter done! Next chapter is one of my favorites :3c  
> Rafael was originally going to be part of a subplot with Rosita, but it cluttered up the plot too much.   
> I'd like to put him in his own story one day, since Rosita's too cute and kind to not have a beau.


	10. Breakdowns are Better with Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucía is back. Victoria is not a fan of the Mamá Hug.

“¡ _Mírate_!” Imelda shook her head, turning Victoria for the third time. She dusted her off as best she could, her face full of maternal exasperation. “I can’t believe this; we’re going to have to wash these as soon as you can get them off… yours too!” she added, waving a hand dismissively at Rosita’s skirts, streaked with soot and Shantytown grime. “I just don’t understand; what on earth were the two of you _doing_?! Rolling around in a construction pit?”

“We just went for a walk,” Victoria repeated yet again, sounding much like a broken record. She looked over Imelda’s shoulder to where Julio stood in the doorway to the workshop, his arms crossed as he watched them. When his mother-in-law had seen the state they were in, she hadn’t let them step one toe into the family living area.

“Victoria.” Imelda gave up and crossed her arms, frowning suspiciously. “You honestly expect me to believe that you stayed out for hours, lost your _t_ _í_ _os_ , and got covered in dirt… on a _walk_.” She stared steadily at them until they both averted their eyes, mouth pursing as she watched for any sign of deceit. When no one answered, she chose the weaker of the two women for her first prey. “Rosita?” she prompted, tone soft and deadly as only a mother’s can be. Rosita stiffened visibly.

“S-S- _S_ _í_?” She tried—and failed—to meet her eyes.

“¿ _Me estás mintiendo_?” There was a short pause before Rosita shook her head quickly, her gaze focused on the floorboards between her shoes.

“No, Mamá Imelda. We really _were_ taking a walk.” Imelda tilted her head forward, pulling out her most lethal ‘Mamá gaze’. Rosita began to tremble, but again shook her head. “That’s the truth.”

“Victoria?” Julio stepped into the workshop, a rare look of disappointment on his face. He crossed his arms, mimicking Imelda’s stance. “ _Mija_ , are you telling the truth? You know better than to lie to your Mamá Imelda.” Unlike her aunt, Victoria held her head high, chin out and shoulders back in a confident pose.

“No, Papá. I’m not lying.” Imelda looked astonished, sharing a quick glance with Julio. It was clear that neither of them believed they were being told the full truth, but there was also no reason to think them capable of falsehood. Neither of them had been dishonest, at least not since Victoria’s childhood attempts to pin misbehavior on Elena. Imelda, at least, had fully been expecting Rosita to crack under the pressure; she was the one with the strongest moral compass, after all.

What she couldn’t have known is that, if a shred of truth could be found in the lie, Rosita was fully capable of carrying it without a hitch. She was fine with half-truths, and it was _true_ that they’d gone on a walk. As long as Imelda didn’t ask, no one had to tell her that the walk had taken them all the way to Shantytown, and Héctor. If she was none the wiser, Rosita could dance around the lie while clinging to the echoes of truth within.

“¡ _Hola_! We’re home!” Imelda was distracted from her interrogation by the arrival of the twins, dusting their shoes off at the front door with matching grins. Rosita breathed a sigh of relief, her bones visibly separating as she slumped. Oscar and Felipe took one look at her, then at Victoria’s defensive stance, Julio’s confusion, and their _hermana_ ’s twisted scowl. The smiles faded; Felipe’s eyes darted about the room, seeing a certain someone’s absence and quickly drawing conclusions. He looked to Victoria, who gave a short shake of the head when Imelda turned to face them.

“And just _where_ have you two been!?” They shrank back in the doorway, clearing their throats guiltily. Unlike the women, Imelda read them far too easily to be led astray by any excuse they could come up with. Still, they did _try_. 

“Er… well, you see—”

“Um…. We were….”

“I don’t know _how_ many times I’ve told you not to go off on your own!” Imelda scolded them sharply. Even though she had to look up at them, it felt as though they were six-years-old again, being reprimanded for wandering out of her sight. “Do you have any idea how worried I was when Rosita and Victoria came back without you? What was so important, that you had to get yourselves lost chasing it?”

“ _Perdóname_ ,” they said in unison, evading the question.

“But,” Oscar added, trying to inject some lightheartedness into his voice, “We have a surprise!”

“A—what?” Imelda’s face grew dark. “If you’ve brought home yet _another_ piece of junk that’s just going to collect dust in that workshop of yours, I—”

“No, no!” Felipe raised his hands. “It’s not a what, it’s a _who_.”

“You’ll never guess who _we_ ran into today!” Oscar sang. “Someone _special_!” He winked at the women over Imelda’s head.

“What?” Imelda rose on her tiptoes, trying to see over their shoulders. “Who?” Before they could answer, they were shoved to either side as a tall skeleton elbowed her way between them. Her green shawl caught on Felipe’s elbow, nearly dragging him to the ground as she picked her way over their tangled legs.

“Ay! What a—dumb thing!” She tore the shawl from the head, her braid catching the setting sun in shades both white as cotton and deep as the silvery midnight moon. She paused, her nearly-black eyes looking over the room before settling on the woman in front of her. She grinned, the green swirls and yellow dots on her cheeks scrunching with the effort. 

“ _IMELDA_!” she squealed, in tones more suited for a teenager than a grown, elderly woman. Julio leapt where he stood, the sound startling him. “ _MI AMIGA_! ¿ _Como estás_?” She didn’t wait for an answer, brushing into the room with gale force and sweeping the shorter woman off her feet. She hugged her, grunting with the effort as Imelda’s boots swayed a good few inches off the floor.

“Oh!” Imelda managed to choke.

“¡ _Ay, hace mucho, **mucho** tiempo que no hablamos_!” she declared, squeezing so tightly that Imelda’s bones protested with snaps and pops. “That’s no good, you know! I had to rely on these blockheads,” she continued in the same breath, dropping Imelda and pointing to the twins, “to tell me how you were! And so, of course, I just ended up coming down myself.” Imelda, once she had put herself to rights, stared up at her blankly. “Well?”

“¡ _Ay_ , _Luc_ _í_ _a_!” Her face crumpled as much as her skull would allow, throwing out her arms for another hug that was gladly accepted, Lucía bending down this time to rest her chin on Imelda’s shoulder. “Oh, how I _missed_ you!” Lucía clucked in mock sympathy, patting the smooth hair above Imelda’s coiled braids.

“ _Mi_ Imelda, you sound like you’ve had a rough time of things!” 

“You wouldn’t believe the half of it!” Imelda let her go, wiping at her sockets. “Oh, what a year it’s been!”

“The boys were telling me of your little _Día de Los Muertos_ escapade. I’m surprised at you, you know! An opening act for the Sunrise Spectacular, and you didn’t even _try_ to get us tickets!”

“Oh, don’t even talk about that.” Imelda rubbed her forehead.

“Ah…” Lucía gave her wig one last pat before looking over her shoulder. “Oh!? Is _this_ little Victoria? It _can’t_ be!” She threw out her hands, sliding around Imelda in one quick movement and catching Victoria up before she could move. “Oh, oh, _oh_! Look at you! All grown up now, and so beautiful! Just like your grandmother; oh, what a lovely _miji-ti-ti-tita_ you turned out to be!”

“ _Hola_ , Doña Lucía,” Victoria managed to grunt, taking an involuntary breath when she was sat down, her glasses askew.

“I bet you don’t even remember me, do you?”

“I remember the hug,” she said, with very little fondness. “It’s as… _tight_ as ever.”

“Oh, what a little jokester!” She pinched her cheek before turning to Rosita, snapping her fingers. “And you’re… Rosa—no, _Rosita_! You’re Socorro’s _cuñada_ , no?”

“ _S_ _í_. It’s nice to see you again, Doña.”

“I remember those boots you made me—ah, I wish Fernando had thought to bury me in them, you know? I miss them so much. Never gave a single blister, no matter how long I wore them.” She smiled down at Julio. “And how are _you_ , Julito?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“I’m dead, I guess! What else can be said of it?” She laughed loudly. “Do you know? When I look at you, all I can think about is that skinny little boy who nearly killed himself with a roll of leather.” Julio’s skull sank into his collar with embarrassment, falling even further when Rosita laughed along with Imelda and her friend.

“I _was_ a little foolish back then,” he admitted shyly. “It was my first day on the job. I wanted to do well.”

“You wanted to impress Coco!” Rosita corrected.

“If you’d wanted to do well, you’d have let someone help you,” Imelda quipped, the affection in her tone lessening the jab.

“It’s true.” Julio chuckled as well. “I guess… I guess I was just being too macho for my own good. I knew very well that I’d have a tough time lifting it, but I didn’t think something so _heavy_ could roll off a truck so fast!”

“In any case, it was pointless, no?” Lucía shook her head, grinning. “Coco was already so much in love with you. Her little Julito could do no wrong! I bet it drove _you_ crazy, eh Imelda?” She winked over her shoulder. “I know _I_ was beside myself when my Verónica came home with that fool of a carpenter’s son.”

“On the contrary.” Imelda sniffed, looking at her son-in-law before smiling warmly. “My daughter showed more sense in her pick of a husband than I did.” The room grew tense, but neither she nor Lucía seemed to notice the change.

“And,” Imelda continued, “I’m very proud to say that every Rivera daughter after her had kept up that tradition. Sons, too,” she added wistfully, rubbing her chin. “Remind me to show you the newest photos of Elena’s _nueras_.”

“Oh yes! I love to see the family, it’s been so long since you’ve brought any newer pictures. Oscar and Felipe were telling me that little Miguelito has gotten so _big_ now! Speaking of which—Imelda, I heard—well, it seems that I missed a little _too_ much.”

“Yes….” Imelda’s shoulders slumped, growing tired just thinking about that hectic night. “You know what? Let’s go to the garden. I have to fill you in on everything.”

“Please do! You know I love a good story, and Fernando—well, he’ll listen if the TV isn’t on.”

“Rosita? Victoria? You go and soak those dresses _before_ the dirt sets! No sense in letting your Sunday best go to waste because you were careless with your clothing. Now, no one bother Lucía and I while we’re in the garden.” She gave them a look that expected no backtalk or excuses.

“Yes, Mamá.” They waited until the two women had disappeared out the back door before convening around the workbench, their heads bent in a huddle. “So, she’s going to help, right?” Victoria asked quickly, keeping her voice low.

“Well—”

“What?” Oscar looked at Felipe.

“It’s hard to say.” He winced when she glared at them. “Look, you don’t just ask Lucía to help and expect it to be done the way you want. She’s got to decide on her own to do it, or you’re just out of luck. That’s how she is.”

“Kind of like Imelda, but worse,” his brother offered helpfully. 

“But she _came_!”

“Yes… to make up her mind,” Felipe answered simply. “She couldn’t do it without seeing Imelda, I think.”

“Also, because we asked her to,” Oscar pointed out. “It’s more of a favor, really, but she won’t do anything if she doesn’t feel it’s right.”

“What are we supposed to do, then? Wait around?” The twins looked at each other, nodded, and turned back.

“Yes.” Victoria stared at them before taking off her glasses, wiping them on her dress and groaning under her breath when the lenses came back covered in dirt. “Patience,” Oscar said softly. “If she _does_ decide to help, we’re in the clear. If she doesn’t… well, we can’t say we didn’t try.”

“I’m sure you did your best,” Julio assured them. “And besides, Mamá Imelda will be in a good mood after visiting with her friend. That counts for something.” He turned to his sister. “But… Rosita, where’s Héctor? I meant to ask earlier, but Mamá beat me to the punch.”

“Yes, we were thinking—”

“—the same thing. Could you not find him?”

“Oh, we found him.” Rosita fingered the edge of her wraps. “In Shantytown.”

“Shan—!” Julio clapped a hand over his mouth as Victoria shushed him. “What was he doing there?” he finished in a whisper.

“Oh, you know. Drinking, feeling sorry for himself, playing the guitar.” She shook he head. “The usual, I would guess.”

“Victoria, that’s mean.”

“It’s also the truth.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Rosita cut her off, “He wouldn’t come with us.”

“What?!”

“He said that Mamá Imelda would come to _him,_ when she’s ready.”

“ _What_?!” Julio slapped a hand to his forehead, groaning. “¡ _Qué tonto_! What kind of logic is that?”

“Sounds like Héctor logic, actually,” Felipe said, nudging his brother. Oscar nodded and shrugged.

“He wants us to trust him.” Rosita looked around the huddle. “But should we?” They looked to the twins, the only ones who had firsthand experience with such a man. Oscar twisted his mustache, thinking.

“He’s always known Imelda’s moods… surely he hasn’t forgotten them.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’d say… let’s see what happens with Lucía first. _No empezar la casa por el tejado_ , after all.”

* * *

 

The garden was quiet, for a change. The only things stirring were the two women on the bench, beneath the motionless yellow pine. Even the sounds from the street didn’t seem to cross over the walls, Imelda’s narrative creating a bubble of kinetic, ever-shifting energy that encompassed the courtyard.

 _“_ We looked all night for him, Lucía! I couldn’t even get to the ofrenda because _he_ had my picture!”

“No!” Lucía scoffed. “He took your picture off the _ofrenda_!?”

“Yes! That boy….” Imelda shook her head. “He was already starting to become a skeleton. You could see the bones though his skin!”

“¡ _Dios mío_!” She looked nauseous. “What a sight that must have been.”

“And when we finally found him, do you know what he did? That boy had the nerve to run away from me! He left me in an alley!”

“I can’t believe it! And after Elena put all her blood and sweat into raising those _niños_ properly….”

“And do you know where he was when I found him? A _cenote_ , Lucía, a _cenote_!”

“My goodness!” She crossed herself. “I don’t want to think about what might have happened to him, if you had been too late!” 

“And even worse: _do you know who he was with_?!”

“Tell me!”

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor._ ” She gasped, hands over her mouth.

“ _No_ ,” she whispered through her fingers. “Oh, Imelda—what did you _do_?”

“Well, I got them out of course! And can you guess who put them there in the first place?!”

“Who, Imelda?! Who?!”

“ _Ernesto de la Cruz_!”

“Of _course_ he did!” Imelda jumped when her friend slapped her knees, the bones clattering together with a sharp whack too loud to be muffled by her clothing. “¡ _Que cabrón_! I _told_ you he was no good from the beginning! A thief and a… and a…” she made an undefinable motion with her hands, a mixture of squashing and ripping. “Ooh,” she swore, clenching her jaw. “What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on that rat! But Imelda, what happened next?”

“The next thing I know, I’m dressed like Frida Kahlo.”

“Frida?”

“And then I turn the corner, and there’s Ernesto! So, I hit him with my boot!”

“There you go!”

“And then? I’m standing onstage! And these big bodyguards are chasing me all over the place, and I have to sing to distract everyone and I don’t know what do to and—ay, Lucía, they were trying to grab me—”

“What?!”

“And _chasing me_ —”

“No!”

“And Ernesto de la Cruz holds me hostage and makes me dance with him!”

“Augh! What a pervert—jerk— _augh_!”

“He takes the photo of Héctor—”

“Oh no! Imelda!”

“—so I stomped his foot! Like this!” Imelda jumped to her feet, lifting her skirts and showing the way she ground her heel into his pristine shoes, his _grito_ of pain in her ear.

“It’s what the bastard deserved!” Imelda paused, clearing her throat and skipping over how she threw herself into her husband’s arms.

“He—er, he grabs Miguel before I can give him my blessing, and… he throws him! Over the ledge!”

“A living boy?! No!”

“Yes! Everyone saw him do it, on camera!” Lucía’s face fell.

“A living boy,” she repeated softly, to herself. “Ernesto was never like that. I mean, he was a jerk, you know, but—What happened to him?”

“Ay, who knows! But he threw my great-great-grandson over a drop like a… like a piece of paper! Just— _oof_!” She heaved an invisible Miguel over the bench.  

“That’s so heartless! What… what would possess him to do such a thing? That guy! He gives all of us a bad name!”

“Music did it to him, Lucía! It made him crazy! I know it, because… you see, it turns out—”

“What?”

“He—” Imelda stopped, her voice catching in her throat. “He—Ernesto, he—”

“Out with it, Imelda! What is it?”

“He _poisoned_ Héctor.” She swallowed thickly, the words heavy and bitter in her mouth. Lucía nodded slowly.

“The twins… they did say….”

“He murdered my husband, Lucía.” She swayed on the spot, her hands clenching into shaking fists. “That sorry excuse for a man—he killed him and dumped his body and—oh, Lucía!” She was too angry to cry, her expression anguished. “What if he was in pain?!” she said in a hushed voice. “What if he was hurting, and he still—he left him like a _dog_ —”

“Imelda—shh, _cálmese­_.” She drew her back down to sit on the bench, patting her spine between the shoulder blades. “Take a deep breath, okay?”

“He left him to die… my Héctor, he left him to _die_.” As she said it aloud, for the first time she _felt_ the implication behind the words. Ernesto had abandoned his friend, her husband, knowing full well that he would die. The pain of it fell down to her chest, beating an agonizing pulse where her heart should have been.

“I don’t even know what to say.” Lucía continued to rub her back soothingly, shaking her head. “But if you say it’s true, I can’t help but believe it. It does make more sense this way, and—shh, Imelda, shh—I’m sure he didn’t hurt for long. You know how it feels to die; it doesn’t hurt forever.” She took her hand, squeezing it as she moved from her back to her hair. “I know you’re angry but try to stay calm. Lucía will take care of it for you, okay? You know I will. Don’t worry,” she murmured as Imelda tried to control herself.

“But what _good_ would it do?” Imelda tore herself from the comforting caresses. “We can’t kill him again! We can’t poison him or—I’d kill him a thousand times if I could, one right after the other! But it still wouldn’t do anything… it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m only saying not to waste your time on that _cabrón_. He’s not worth anyone’s notice; the sooner he’s forgotten, the better, I say.” They were silent. “I’m just a little angry that I didn’t get to see you onstage, _amiga._ ” Imelda didn’t reply. “We always talked about it when we were young, you know? Dancing together with your brothers in the bar, once Mamá had made all the drunkards leave for the day… we were going to be famous. Or so we imagined.”

“Not me.” Imelda laughed sadly. “I couldn’t have gotten onstage in front of anyone when I was alive. It was hard enough being dead. I’d never been so scared.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“All those _eyes_ , staring at me? And those bright lights? And the loud music and the—no, I didn’t like it at all! If it hadn’t been for Hé—for my _family_ backstage….” She paused. “I would not do it again, even if they paid me to.”

“But the singing?”

“I did like the singing,” she confessed. “For a moment, I felt _young_ again. I hadn’t sung in so long that I… I forgot what it felt like. I forgot how much I loved it.” She sighed. “But it’s better to leave it all in the past, I think. Old women don’t sing.”

“ _Uff_! I’m three years older than you and I sing all the time! Who’re you calling old?!” She shoved Imelda’s shoulder playfully. “Sing, _amiga_. Sing with all your heart. It’s good for you, feeling young. And when you sing, I will dance; we will be just like we were in St. Cecelia.”

“That sounds nice in theory, but—” Imelda nodded to the house. “I have a business to run. Music… is not part of that. It _can’t_ be part of that.”

“Why not?” Lucía looked around the garden. “And where is that boy Héctor anyway? He hasn’t come to say hello or anything! I ought to smack him around a little, the way I used to whenever he called me Cici. You remember that? I always threatened to smash the guitar over his head!” she laughed, trying her best to lighten the mood. Imelda looked at her sharply, and then turned away.

“He’s not here,” she replied shortly. “He’s not welcome here.”

“What?” Lucía tilted her head, the yellow pinpricks on her cheekbones catching the fading rays of the sun. “You dance onstage for his photo but he’s not to come home afterwards?”

“This isn’t his home. And I only did that because he was being Forgotten. I didn’t want him to face the Final Death, so—that’s it. Nothing more. Don’t read into it.” She turned her nose in the air, squaring her shoulders.

“Uh huh.” Lucía looked skeptical, flipping the end of her long braid. “I _see_.”

“Lucía,” Imelda warned. “Don’t take that tone. I don’t want to see him anymore. I’m sticking by the decision I made when I died. He’s dea—” She choked on the word, clearing her throat to hide it. “He has no reason to show his ugly face around here anymore.”

“Ha! It’s been a long time since you called him ugly!” Lucía’s face turned thoughtful and she looked at the house, the sun glinting off the upper story windows. “But… I can’t say that I blame you. Or, at least, I understand why you don’t love him anymore, you know.”

“That—well—” She stammered just enough to pique interest.

“Oh?”  Lucía eyed her closely, leaning over the bench to stare into her eyes. “You _don’t_ love him anymore, do you, Imelda?” No answer. Imelda averted her gaze, tugging at her sleeves. “Am I wrong?”

“I—that is—”

“ _Imelda_.” Her eyes narrowed. “¡ _Mírame a los ojos_!” From one mother to another, the order was still maternal enough that Imelda obeyed. “Tell me do you not love him. Right now.”

“I—I don’t—I don’t love—” She sighed, dropping her head. “I don’t _know_.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know!” She closed her eyes, hands fisting in her dress. “I just don’t know.” Neither of them spoke for a long time; Lucía leaned back to give her space, Imelda keeping her eyes closed and head bowed. 

“Do you remember… Imelda?” Imelda opened her eyes, looking up to see Lucía staring up at the sky through the leaves. “My wedding. Do you remember?”

“Of course.” She still had the photo taken by Lucía’s request, to immortalize their friendship. Two sepia women in front of a church, side-by-side and solemn-faced. One tall and slender, her black hair and blacker eyes shining like splotches of ink against the brilliant white patterns of a beaded wedding dress; the other shorter and several months with child, her round face both stern and lively as she stood with her arm around the slender one’s waist. “The photo hangs in the upstairs hallway, with the others. It’s such a nice one; I couldn’t help but take a copy from your _ofrenda_.”

“The photo _is_ nice,” Lucía agreed. “I have a copy, too. But… even as nice as it is, it doesn’t show my true feelings.”

“Yes, it was always such a _pain_ that we couldn’t smile. I was so glad when they fixed that sort of thing. It’s much better to be able to look normal in a photo.” She thought of the young dancer who had snapped a photo before she could finish getting ready. It was instantaneous nowadays, where as before they had to stand so long under the sun, sweat dripping down their backs as Coco kicked against her ribs in protest.

“You’re mistaken.” Lucía drew her braid over her shoulder, her fingerbones running loops over the soft rope of hair. “I wouldn’t have smiled, to show my _true_ feelings.”

“What?”

“I was…” she chuckled sadly. “I was so _terrified_ , Imelda. I don’t know how I kept from shaking like a leaf during the ceremony, you know.”

“You!?” Imelda gaped, forgetting herself in her shock. “You?!” She repeated dumbly. “But Lucía, I can’t believe that! You’ve never been afraid of anything!”

“Almost anything. But I was afraid to be married.”

“Explain _how_. I don’t understand.” Lucía smiled fondly, rolling one shoulder in a shrug.

“You know? For six generations, it was always us women. No men allowed, my mother used to joke. Sometimes they died… other times they just left,” she said bluntly. “My own father left the day I was born. He told my mother that he’d wanted a son, and he wasn’t planning on hanging around to try again.”

“I know. You’ve told me before.” 

“If my marriage was like hers… Fernando would only stay a few years. If that.”

“Yes.”

“My children, too, would grow up without a father.”          

“You know?” Imelda said suddenly, quoting her friend’s go-to phrase. “I couldn’t have imagined, at the time, what it would be like for Coco to grow up without a father,” she admitted. “I was so close to Papá; you remember how I cried when he died. Like a baby instead of a grown woman.” She sighed. “I wanted Coco to have someone to be close to, too. Even if it wasn’t me.” She shrugged one shoulder. “It _was_ hard, raising Coco by myself. But you would have managed a lot better than I ever did. I know it.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about _that_.” Lucía shook her head. “My children would have been fine. After all, I never knew my father. I didn’t _want_ to know him; Mamá was enough for me. I never had to worry about them; that’s not what I was afraid of.”

“Then what on earth were you so afraid for? Was it…” She lowered her voice. “Your wedding night?” Lucía rolled her eyes at her. “Okay then, _what_?”

“I was afraid for myself, Imelda.”

“…What?”

“I loved Fernando.” She thought. “I _still_ love him, the old goat. And I had given him my heart—I’d never done such a thing before, to anyone else. If he left….” She faltered, an old, haunted expression on her face. “I didn’t even want to think of it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take it, not like Mamá. She told me herself that she never loved him, not really. He was just… there. But I _loved_ Fernando. I loved him so much that I was afraid to marry him.”

“You never told me!” Imelda said, flabbergasted. “Why did you not say something?”

“Oh, you know me.” Lucía shrugged. “I was too proud back then. Strong Lucía, independent Lucía. _Idiot_ Lucía, more like. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and when I was pregnant with Verónica I managed to convince myself that he _would_ leave.”

“That sounds like a foolish thing to do.”

“Well…. So what? I was young. Anyway, I started preparing myself for it. I pushed him away. I thought “You know, if he wants to go, let him. I’ll be okay, as long as I don’t talk to him from now on.” It was a stupid idea, but I was full of stupid ideas back in those days.”

“Lucía….”

“Fernando had every right to leave, with the way I treated him.” She curled in on herself, blinking rapidly. “It hurts to think about it now, how cruel I was. And no one outside of the house knew about it, of course. I don’t know now, but at the time I _thought_ they were all thinking the same thing I did. I was too blind to see how wrong I was.” She began to laugh, the sound croaking and near tears.

“What?”

“You know? The night she was born, he came to the door of the bedroom and looked at me. I was awake, and by the time I thought about pretending to be asleep it was too late. He looked at me, and I looked at him, and I said to myself “Well Lucía, this is it!” And…”

“And?”

“And… I knew then that no matter how hard I pushed, it was going to tear me apart to hear him say he’d wanted a son. That we weren’t _enough_ for him now.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, of _course_ he wouldn’t! But I was an idiot!” Lucía tsked, busying herself with her hair again. “He looked me in the eyes and said, “Well I dunno if you want me gone or not,” she quoted, her voice going deep and raspy, “but I aim to stick around whether you like me or not! So, get used to it!””

“…Well, that sounds like something Fernando would say,” Imelda admitted, thinking of the blunt young man her friend had married. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing, until after I had finished crying. He came in and held me, the big softie. He even let me get a good punch in, not that I was in any shape to hit him.” She looked mildly embarrassed. “And after that, I just knew he’d stay. We never talked about it again. And I realized that I had made my own fears come true, just because I assumed he would act like my father. I learned to trust him, the way he ought to have been trusted from the beginning.” She shifted her weight, resting her elbow on her knee to prop up her chin. “In the end, it’s a good thing that I died first. I don’t know if I could have been as strong as he was.”

“I never knew any of that about you, Lucía. You surprise me.” Imelda looked at her a long moment, wondering how she could have went her whole life without knowing everything about her closest friend. “And it’s a lovely story, but… why did you bring it up?”

“I told you because I wanted to let you know that I was afraid, once. And if Lucía was afraid, it’s okay for Imelda to be afraid.” She smiled sadly. “It’s not easy, giving your heart over to someone.” It took a minute for her meaning to sink in.

“I am _not_ afraid of Héctor!” Imelda protested, standing up and moving away from the bench in anger. “And even if I _was_ , don’t you think he’s given me every right to be? Why should I trust him at all?! He _left_ me!”

“I never said he didn’t.” Lucía stared at her intently. “You’re not even a little afraid of him?”

“Not one little bit!” Imelda began to pace before the bench. “He left and never came back. Fernando stayed with you, so you have no idea what it’s like to—and furthermore, he _did_ break my heart! Fernando never meant to break yours!”

“Why, Imelda!” Lucía looked surprised. “I never knew that Héctor meant to be murdered!”

“He didn’t— _augh_ , you know what I mean!” She pointed a threatening finger. “Stop being the Devil’s Advocate!” Lucía shook her head fondly, patting the bench.

“Imelda, sit down. I’m not saying you’re wrong, you firecracker. You have every right to feel that way.”

“Of course I do.” Imelda sat on the edge of the bench, tapping her foot impatiently. “So don’t think anything more about it.”

“Okay. I won’t.” They sat. “Do you think he loves you?”

“Do I—what?” Her foot stopped as she turned. “What?”

“Héctor: does he still love you, you think?” Her irritation faded to shock, then contemplation, before settling into confusion.

“I… I don’t know. I never asked.” She looked away, suddenly shy. “I would assume so.”

“Assume so? You don’t know, eh?” Lucía sighed before clapping her hands briskly. “Okay then! Whatever you say, _amiga_.”

“What—?”

“That’s all there is to it, you know?” She smoothed her skirts. “You said it yourself: you don’t’ want to see him anymore. If you’ve made that decision, then Lucía’s happy for you. That’s it. That’s the end of it.” 

“Well… y-yes, you’re right.” Imelda nodded hesitantly. “That’s it exactly. I’m glad _you_ , at least, understand.” She shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “The rest of them,” she said, nodding to the house, “they can see him if they want to. I can’t deny them anymore. It wasn’t right of me. But… in my case, that’s the end of it. As far as I’m concerned.”

“Mmhmm.” Lucía stretched before cracking her neck, vertebrae shifting visibly as they popped into place. “That’s good! You’re the bigger woman, as far as I can see it. The family needs to make their own choices sometimes. I’m proud of you, Imelda.”

“Hmph.”

“And it’s a big city, you know? You’ll never have to see him again if you don’t want to.”

“That’s right.”

“But, you know? I’d like to clap eyes on that boy again someday. I want to hear about his travels. What the _big_ world outside of St. Cecelia is like.” She laughed. “I’d ask your brothers, but I’d hate to hurt their feelings, no matter _how_ cute they get when they’re angry.”

“Leave them alone.” Imelda scowled. “I _wish_ I had been alive. I could have stopped that from ever happening. What a mess! Why did they ever want to leave? What was so great about that railroad, that people kept wanting to get on a train and go somewhere else?”

“Don’t ask me. I barely left the neighborhood after the children were grown.”

“I was so _shocked_ to get that phone call. I would have never thought them to be so reckless.”

“Oh yes. Taking a trip to Mexico City certainly is reckless, alright.”

“And then they had them in separate rooms! The twins, who had never been apart before! It nearly broke them, waking up thinking that they were alone for the first time—it broke my heart, to see them so upset. They were nearly in hysterics before I could tell them the mistake.”

“Oh, don’t dwell on it. It’s all fine now.”

“Yes… and they promised to never do something like that again, so—you’re right. I shouldn’t dwell on it.” They sat together, hip to hip as they watched the fountain bubbling in the soft twilight. “Lucía?”

“Hmm?”

“Just _why_ did you think I was afraid?”

“I thought we’d changed the subject, Imelda.”

“Well, I’m changing it back. Tell me why.” Lucía turned to her.

“Oh, Imelda.” She reached up to trace the line of dots beneath her left eye socket, stopping when she reached the purple pattern on her upper forehead. “I _know_ you. He hurt you once; you’d be afraid of it happening again.” Imelda pushed her hand away.

“Well, I’m not. Afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.” She took a deep breath. “It’s just that this is the best choice. For the both of us.”  

“It is?” Lucía put her hands in her lap, her expression disbelieving. “How so?” Imelda reached over to pluck a leaf from one of the herbs climbing the base of the tree trunk, shredding it in her hands as she thought. “Am I going to get an answer?”

“It’s just that—I couldn’t hold him back in the living world.” She let the green confetti fall to the ground, her finger bones stained a faint green. She reached automatically for another leaf. “It wouldn’t be worth the effort, trying to hold him back here too.”

“Holding him—Imelda.” Lucía stopped herself, taking a deep breath and speaking when she could reach a level of calm. “Do you mean to tell me that after all these years, you _still_ think you let him go without a proper fight? I’m surprised at you, you know!” she scolded. “Do you honestly think there was something more you could have done? Something that you didn’t already try?”

“I don’t know.” Her face fell. “I do wonder, sometimes.”

“Ay, _Imelda_. So stubborn, even a century later. I should have guessed.” 

 “Oh, shut up.” Imelda crossed and uncrossed her arms, trying to find a comfortable position and failing. “It doesn’t matter—nothing’s the same now. You can’t judge me _now_ based on what I did back then. I… I have a family to protect!” she insisted.

“Imelda Rivera!” Lucía frowned, raising her voice until there was no choice but to listen to what she had to say. “You sat here not ten minutes ago and told me that your family was free to see him! The only person you’re trying to protect is _yourself_.”

            “I—no! That’s not—I—you see—” Faced with Lucía’s scrutiny, she floundered and fell silent. “Maybe,” Lucía whispered, keeping her voice as gentle as she could, “maybe you’re just a little afraid. Just a little.” Her jaw trembled, a tear pooling in the mostly-empty socket and sliding down her cheek. “Imelda…”

“Oh, _Luc_ _í_ _a_ ….” She broke down quietly, covering her face with her hands and turning in shame. “I don’t know if I can do this again!” she sobbed. “I just _can’t_!”

“Of course you can, if you want to! You’re so strong—”

“You don’t understand!” She tried weakly to push her away, even as she let herself be gathered up like a child. She buried her head in the gap between Lucía’s spine and shoulder blade, a hand over her mouth to muffle her stilted gasps.

“Then tell me, _amiga_. _Make_ me understand.” She pulled her closer, and for a jealous moment Imelda wished that it was not her friend, but her mother. Still, she soaked up the warm affection pouring from Lucía in droves.

“It’s just—I’m _old_! And he—I thought he left me for good, Lucía. I thought he’d forgotten all about me, and he’d found another woman, or—I never, _ever_ thought, not for a moment—why did I think _that_ first?! What kind of—why—”

“Shh, there now. Don’t cry so, Imelda. It’s going to be alright.” But the words she’d kept inside of her for months were pouring out, a dam that had cracked and was now spilling water under heavy pressure. She couldn’t’ stop the flow, unable to control her blathering mouth as she wailed into the crook of her friend’s neck.

“He tried to find me when I died! He begged me to listen, to let him explain, and I just turned him away! So many times, and I never—he must have thought I was—there was no way for him to know that Ernesto never _told_ me!”

“Imelda, it’s okay!” But she was in full hysterics, and there was no choice but to let her ride it out.

“I can’t help but think… what he must have—what I—how could I have been so horrid?! What came over me? I don’t know—I thought—I mean—”

“How could you have known? Calm down, it’s okay! Here, let me see if I have a handkerchief—”

“I wrote him once, Ernesto—I just thought that if I knew he was alright, I could move on—but no one answered! I thought that maybe he hadn’t seen it, maybe he’d mistaken it for fan mail or—oh, Lucía!” She wiped futilely at her eyes, tears, spilling off her cheekbones and onto her ribs. Lucía didn’t reply, still fishing for a handkerchief and shoving the tearstained part of her dress off her shoulder. “If he read it, he never answered me! What if he ignored me on purpose?! Why?!”

“Because he’s a criminal, of course!” Lucía shook her head, pockets coming up empty. Imelda, would you listen to reason?” she sighed, turning from the sympathetic companion to the no-nonsense best friend in effort to help rein in her emotions. “You couldn’t have known. How could you? There was no way, you know.”

“I hurt him, Lucía… I hurt him, I know I did. I turned him away, and all these years he’s been in pain for something I did. He was being Forgotten because of what I did! You didn’t _see_ him; he was so weak, I—”

“Would you _hush_ that?” Lucía helped her wipe her tears, shaking her head. “You can’t be blamed for something you didn’t know. How on earth do you even come about with these ridiculous ideas, Imelda?” she huffed, finally using the apron itself to dry her eyes. “You listen to _me_ now, okay? Imelda Rivera is not to blame for things she couldn’t help.”

“But I let him go with Ernesto! And I wouldn’t listen—” She was cut off by a quick slap, two more in fast succession forcing her to draw in a sharp breath. She fell quiet, breathing haggard and sniffling as she let her wipe down her skull.

“ _Imelda Rivera is not to blame for things she couldn’t help_. You _listen_ to _me_. If you had made him stay, it would have been no better. I know it. Believe me.”

“But—”

“Do you know what would have happened? He would have spent the rest of his life wondering about what might have been, and you would have felt guilty for keeping him back. Who knows; even if it _had_ worked out, you might have resented each other for it. Sometimes, things have to be because they _have to be_. And no matter what the circumstances, it does no good to dwell on it. Like I said before, you know?”

“I….”

“See? You know I’m right. Now stop that crying. You told me that things are different now, right? Here, take this and dry your sternum; it looks like you’ve been caught in the rain.” 

“Lucía… do you think….” Imelda looked down, taking the edge of her apron and patting her breastbone until it was dry. “Do you think I should give him another chance?” she whispered, not looking up.

“The only one who knows the answer to that is you, I think.” She smoothed her apron back over the embroidered flowers on her skirt.

“But what if I don’t know?”

“Then… I don’t know either, to be honest.” Lucía patted her roughly on the back. “But you always were the brightest, between the two of us. When the time comes, I think you’ll know the answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I PROMISE that Imelda and Héctor will have some quality conversation in the next chapter. :D


	11. Let's Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor and Imelda finally have an adult conversation, though neither one of them feels very grown up.

“Lucía, you _must_ stay for supper. I insist.”

“And then after supper, I _must_ stay the night because it’s late and I’m old, no?” Lucía laughed in her usual blunt manner, shaking her head. “No, I think I’d better go home.”

“But—”

“Blame Fernando. It’s alright, he won’t mind.” She waved off the repeated invitation, grabbing Imelda by the shoulders. She picked her up, kissing both cheeks before wrapping her in an embrace. “He has to have that cake in the house at all times, you know. And unless I make it to the store within the hour, I’ll have to catch a trolley across town to get some.”

“Doña, I’m _sure_ he’d underst—”

“What? Understand? _Uff_!” She laughed loudly, pinching Victoria’s cheekbones fondly. “Not my Fernando. He’s probably already tapping his foot waiting on me… if he’s not asleep, that is.” She gestured to the twins. “C’mere, _mis gemelitos_. Come, come—” She kissed their cheeks as well, squeezing them tightly. “Now, _promise_ that you’ll not wait another twenty years to come by for a visit? I’ll be angry if you don’t.”

“ _Juro_ ,” they agreed in unison. “If you want us to.”

“I do. Julito? Rosita?” She held out her arms for a hug from them. “In fact, I hold all of you to it! The Villa has a banquet hall that they rent out, you know. I think—for my birthday, perhaps—my family and your family? It would be a _big_ party! Lots of fun! Even Fernando can’t say no to that.”

“If you do the planning, we’ll be there,” Imelda assured her.

“Then I plan on _all_ the Riveras coming.” Imelda visibly stiffened, looking down at her boots. “I suppose we’ll see,” she added, tilting her head and winking at the twins. “Well, I’ll be off. Until next time, then?” She offered a little wave, long fingerbones wiggling, and then threw the faded green shawl over her shoulders. “¡ _Adios_!”

“¡ _Adios_!” They all waved to her from the door, watching her lanky form glide down the front walk with a brisk grace. “Take care!” They stood there until the tail of her long braid whipped around the corner.

“It’s always nice to get a visit from her,” Oscar said to Imelda conversationally, running a finger along the left side of his mustache.

“Yes. It’s nice to see old friends,” she replied neutrally, plucking at her sleeves. “I do miss being able to see her every day, but we’re both so busy now. I suppose that’s how it is. After all, I do have a business to run. And she’s got a life of her own in that retirement place. But,” she added with a soft sigh, “it’s nice to indulge, every so often.”

“Indulge?” Julio repeated, scratching his head.

“Yes… gossiping, it’s—careless indulgence. Sitting around to talk about the past has never put a roof over anyone’s head.”

“That’s funny,” Victoria quipped. “People on the television do it every day.”

“Talking about the past?” Felipe glanced quickly at his brother. “Is that what you two were doing out there? I thought you’d be catching up.”

“We were—well, we did—we were just remembering old times. We spoke of her wedding.” Imelda looked away. “And… other things.” She clapped her hands. “But we’re still standing about talking, and there’s supper to put on the table. Rosita? Victoria?” She turned on her heel, marching back towards the kitchen. They all looked at one another with varying confusion, though the tíos were smiling. Julio yanked nervously at his mustache, flashing another quick glance at the door before speaking.

“Do you think—what now?” Felipe shook his head at him, tapping at his temple with a faint smile.

“What now?” Oscar parroted with a smile. “Why, we play it by ear.”

* * *

 

The days passed.

Rosita had once called them ghosts, when they were at the edge of Shantytown looking for Miguel. If she was a ghost, then this was what it truly meant to be one. She haunted the house, going through the motions of life without seeing or hearing anything, searching for an answer.

The others were worried; they didn’t have to say a word. She knew.

The twins hovered over her anxiously, guardian spirits jumping at the slightest indication that they were needed. The women whispered in the kitchen, heads pressed together over chopped vegetables as they watched her through the doorway. They only fell silent when she entered, watching her with large eyes until she left them again. Julio became a shadow, present but voiceless.

Her preoccupied mind made it too easy to slip up; she acted more like an old woman in the past six days than she ever had before. It was always trivial things, though over time they added up to disaster. She sewed a right pattern to a left sole. She burned meals, staring off into space while the rice bubbled into a blackened mess and the eggs stuck to the skillet. She even forgot to feed poor Pepita; it was only when the hungry _alebrije_ broke a window pawing for attention that they all went scrambling to fill her bowl.

If her family thought anything of the incidents, they said nothing. Instead, they quietly trailed behind her to clean her messes—or better, prevent their happening in the first place. Julio and her _hermanos_ began to inspect her shoes, double-checking the work and fixing minor defects without bringing them to her attention. Rosita made excuses to be in the kitchen—the cupboards seemed to need rearranging _right_ at mealtimes—and kept one eye on the food while spot-checking the preparations. Victoria always made sure to be around at feeding time, watching Imelda fed Pepita and remedying the mistake if she didn’t.

She blamed her absentmindedness on many things, but _rest_ was one of the main factors. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep. Every night she tossed and turned for hours, and that was if she even made the effort to lie down and close her eyes. Everything about her bed seemed wrong, somehow, and her active thoughts made it too hard to relax enough to fall into anything deeper than a light doze. On the offhand that she _did_ sleep, unsettling dreams woke her long before dawn. 

It wasn’t as though she _needed_ sleep. Just like eating and drinking, a skeleton didn’t require sleep to function on a day to day basis. There were no muscles or nerves to rest, no brain in their skulls to settle, no organs to repair. It was merely habit; it never seemed right to _not_ sleep when it was nighttime, or at least try to rest at some point within twenty-four hours. Sleep was a good time-waster, shutting down the mind and recharging emotions. On top of it all, sleep just _felt_ good, just like food still _tasted_ good and drinks still quenched thirst that, to be fair, never existed until one was quenching it.

Imelda enjoyed sleeping as much as the next person, but now she found herself lacking joy in the act. She paced her bedroom at night, hours passing without her notice until the sun shone on her bleak, weary face. When her family was in bed, there were no distractions from her whirlwind thoughts, no interruptions in the never-ending slew of questions that leapt through her mind with no real answers. No one was aware of her turmoil.

Lucía had said that when the time was right, she’d know the answers. That she’d be able to make a choice. _But when_? When would the time be right? She asked herself the same questions continuously, an intermittent interrogation broken only by forced conversation with her housemates. There was no peace, not while she still wondered and doubted.

_Do I dare to give him a chance?_

That question was the first, the most asked, and the least favorable for a solid answer. No matter where her mind wandered, it invariably circled back to that one point, the anchor around which her thoughts sloshed.

_Do I deserve another chance?_

That query was linked to the first by guilt. It ate at her continuously; to look at it was to see a shadow, pointing down at her from some high place and stating her sins against him in tones of utter condemnation. **_You_** _refused to put his picture on the ofrenda. **You** wouldn’t let Coco remember him. **You** were the selfish one, the irredeemable one. The things that happened to him in this place are **your** fault. You deserve no peace, no loving embrace, no deliverance. You deserve little more than a Shantytown shack and your own shame.   _ 

For decades, she’d shoved every lingering doubt, every searching question, every heaving sob to the back of her mind; if she could have helped it, they would have never seen the light of day. But now, in the darkness, they came to light one by one. The rage that she’d let take center-stage for so many years, fading over time to spite, had collapsed into regret like burning cinders falling under the weight of ash. When she had looked in the mirror, watching the lines sink into her face and gray twist into her hair, it had been so much easier to see the cold, independent woman she’d thought she had become.

Now, she saw only the truth—a heartbroken, jilted young lady staring out from an old woman’s bones.

 _Do I still love him_? That was a pertinent question, one that should’ve been easy. Yes, she’d blurted out those words in front of Ernesto. They were the truth, whole and absolute. He _had_ been the love of her life. She’d never remarried; something within her had recoiled at the thought of another man’s touch. There had been men, of course—estranged husband or no, there were always men who saw the beautiful woman behind the stern face—and some of them had even been kind to her. There were a small handful that, if she’d let herself, she might have learned to love.

The town had laughed at her. _Imelda Rivera—I knew it was only a matter of time before she chased that boy off! She must have been quite a shrew, if even H_ _éctor had to run for the hills._

_I don’t blame him at all; I mean, look at the way she acts!_

_The way she **acted** ; she always had a bad-tempered spirit. _

_I feel sorry for that little girl, though. She’ll have to grow up knowing exactly what her mother is…._

It seemed as if overnight, she’d become one of the ostracized. Imelda Rivera, single mother in a small town. Imelda Rivera, the nag who couldn’t keep a husband—if he ever _was_ her husband to begin with, a few whispered. Lucía was one of the only ones who stood on her side, but even that wasn’t a full consolation; Lucía had always been one of the outcasts, the daughter of an alehouse whore with no father and no chance to better herself.

It certainly hadn’t helped Héctor’s case when he didn’t return. A small part of her—a part that grew with each passing month—began to wonder if they were right. Had she chased him off? Had he seen his chance when Ernesto made an offer, and seized his own moment right under her nose? _Of course not! My H_ _éctor would never abandon us!_ But that defiant voice became smaller and smaller as first one year, and then two, and then ten passed without a word.

She’d rolled her sleeves up and learned shoemaking from a kind widower who’d seen past her town status. She’d learned more than shoes from him; the rumors abounded, especially when she could be seen leaving his house so late in the evening. He’d taken them in stride and taught her in turn how to turn her nose up at the gossipers, or better yet—indulge them by taking away their fun. Don Martín had taught her to smile at those who ridiculed her, to never show them how much their words hurt.

And, when she’d showed how little she cared for their comments, the men came back. But as handsome as they were, and as gentle as they seemed, they were never _right_. No man seemed to meet her standards: this one was too short, this one too tall, that one too brawny, another had stubby fingers, too much hair, too _little_ hair, his voice wasn’t the right pitch…. It took a few years for her to realize that she was comparing them all to Héctor. They weren’t right for her, because they weren’t _him_. And when they made their advances known, she could never bring herself to respond in kind.

_I’m sorry. I’m married._

_I have a husband, you know._

They sounded like excuses. Perhaps that was what she’d meant them to be. _Had_ she meant them that way? Was it because she’d never learned his fate? _Even then… was I holding out hope? Was I waiting for him, all those years?_

She had no answers.

When she wasn’t questioning herself, she was arguing with herself. Between the two, she had no clue which was worse. The arguing gave her headaches, the two voices—somehow both hers, and both valid—running circles in her mind until she was dizzy from it. The same debate all the time, keeping her up for night after night after night without mercy.

_Either you love him, or you don’t love him._

_It’s so much more complicated than that!_

_He hurt you._

_I know._

_You hurt him._

_I know that, too._

She rubbed her temples, nursing her migraine.

_Do you really want him back?_

_I miss him._ More than she realized. It had taken seeing him, standing beside him, his voice saying her name the way it used to, his expressions, still so familiar despite lacking skin and muscle…. _I miss him so much._

 _What if he doesn’t want you?_ She wouldn’t have been surprised at this point. _How many times must I turn you away_? She had asked him that, once. Now, the words had changed. _How many times will he let himself be turned away?_

_I don’t know._

_He hasn’t come back._ No one had commented on it, but she knew they were talking behind her back. She could almost _feel_ their words, their concern. If she had told them everything, the day she’d come back from the market, then perhaps they might have understood. But she hadn’t, and she’d made such a big fuss about it that her pride would be wounded to speak of it now.

 _I wanted him to stay away._ She had meant it when she’d asked him to not touch her, not associate with her. Surely, he saw her seriousness. Surely _that_ was why he hadn’t returned.  

_You might be making the same mistake all over again._

_I—_

_Are you willing to take that chance?_ Was she? Life had changed so much! Chances were for the young, and she was an old woman now.

_I…_

_Well? Are you?_

_I…._

_Answer!_

_I-I don’t know!_ _¡Ay!_ She buried her head in her arms, slumping down before the mirror. The wood of the _tocador_ felt cool against her cheek, though her bones had no real sense of heat in them. _I’ve never been so lost… ¿dónde es Pepita?_

Her beautiful, wonderful spirit guide; even as a normal housecat, she’d been a loyal and loving companion. Somehow living far beyond a normal cat’s lifespan, she had been a source of undying affection and quiet comfort during Imelda’s living years. It was the best feeling in the world, to lie in bed at the end of a stressful day with Pepita at her side, purring softly as she stroked her gray fur. She told Pepita everything, even the things she couldn’t bear to tell another living soul. Pepita didn’t have to understand the words whispered into her fur as she was held close: she only had to listen. And she listened well.

What a joy it was to find her again in the Land of the Dead, and to know that her Pepita was an _alebrije_! Of course, she couldn’t go inside the house and she certainly couldn’t fit on the bed; however, she could stick her head through the window, and she was still a wonderful listener. _She_ would help her to feel better, and maybe with her spirit guide purring under her hand, she could better unravel some of the tangled emotions in her head.

She rose, going to the window and opening it quietly before leaning out into the night. The beat of the city was the same as ever, though for once the quiet sounds of her neighborhood seemed to overpower the distant thudding and laughter. She took a deep breath, the night air filling her skull but doing little to relax her.

“Pepita?” she whispered, clicking her tongue and drumming her fingers on the windowsill. Normally, that was enough to bring the giant cat from her resting place in the courtyard below. Tonight, however, there was no answering grumble. “Pepita?” she ventured louder, trying to keep her tone low as she peered furtively at the courtyard. The shadows were deep despite the full moon, thanks to the thick, opaque canopy of leaves from the gnarled pine.

 _Where on earth could she be?_ It wasn’t like Pepita to leave the hacienda at night. Then again, she had been a housecat in the living world; perhaps she had gotten a nostalgic sense of wanderlust? _I need her._ The thought blocked out any practical argument as she unfolded the shawl draped over the back of her chair. If she couldn’t find Pepita by calling, she’d just have to look. It wouldn’t be too hard to find a giant cat in the neighborhood, after all.

Her bedroom door opened with a creak. She froze, furtively listening to the quiet sounds of her sleeping family. She didn’t want them to wake up and find her sneaking out; there would be questions, as well as wondering why she was up so late in the first place. She didn’t want their voices, kindly telling her to go to bed.

She wanted Pepita.  

She crept down the hall, stealing down the stairs as best she could in the dark. One hand on the wall, she felt her way down step by step until she was at the bottom. The kitchen sink dripped infrequently, and the soles of her boots sounded like gunshots on the tile. She turned back, cocking an ear towards the upstairs landing; Julio snorted once in his sleep, but there was no other sound. The clock in the front parlor struck one, softly chiming with metallic echoes. It whirred, setting itself up for another set, and the house fell motionless once more.

She felt for the key that hung by the back door, slipping it into her dress pocket before slowly turning the lock. A quiet _snick_ , and the door swung open without a sound. She was quicker now, efficiently shutting it back and locking it from the outside before looking around. From ground level, it was easier to see into the murky shadows that shifted with the cool breeze. Clouds crept over the moon, but in the interim she could see that Pepita was not there. There was nowhere to hide.

“Pe- _pi-_ ta,” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth as she moved towards the back gate. She even gave a low whistle, clicking her tongue and making all the noises that cats seem to love. “Pepi-ti-ti-tita?” No answer. “Oh…. ¿ _Dónde estás_?” she grumbled, opening the iron gate. It swung with a rusty groan, the sound grating. She paused again, afraid that someone inside the house might have heard, but there was no movement, no sudden lights in the windows. She shut it behind her, hoping that she could find Pepita and be back before anyone noticed her missing. She still had several hours before sunrise, but still—

“Pepita?” The alley was quiet. The small bar across the street had its back door shut, but from the open windows smoke rose in low tendrils. The other houses were quiet, their occupants either out or asleep, as she should have been. _Which way?_ Looking down both sides of the alley, she reluctantly took the direction of the more crowded street. It was larger and would better suit a creature like her _alebrije_. _I’m glad I never got undressed_. She looked down at her everyday dress, two polished black boots shining beneath the hem. It was a little wrinkled, but she was otherwise presentable.

She walked, avoiding meandering couples and drunken groups of partygoers as she looked for her pet. Each alley was inspected, each rooftop scrutinized as she called softly, snapping her fingers when she could without being seen and questioned. She had walked the length of the street when one of her calls had a response: a soft growl that seemed to run right up her backbone.

“Pepita!” The _alebrije_ sat at the opposite end of an alley, twisting its head as it looked at her sideways. “There you are, my Pepi-ti-tita,” she crooned, forgetting herself as she fell into cutesy animal-speech. “Come on, come to mamá.” Pepita purred, the sound like a jet engine as it bounced between the two walls of the alley. It looked at her, blinking slowly, before standing and walking around the corner. “Pe—Pepita, no!” She followed quickly, swallowing a groan. That was just like a cat, looking their owner in the eye before ignoring them.

“Pepita, where are you going?” Pepita was at the crest of the hill now, looking down at her while its tail swished in quick flicks. It crouched as she grew stern, snapping her fingers sharply before pointing at her boots. “Pepita, come _here_.” It purred again before turning, running over the top of the hill and disappearing around the bend. “Ay! Get back here!” She followed, holding up her skirts as she gave chase.

She came to the four-way intersection, looking up and down the abandoned streets. The lights flashed for traffic, though there were no pedestrians or vehicles aside from her. Far above her, a trolley bell sounded as it sped by on its zipline.

“Pepita?” No answer, but she saw a large shadow dance across the windows of a building to her left. Looking for any sign of people-activity, she quickly jaywalked and ran down the sidewalk. _She’s heading for the bridge,_ she thought to herself as she kicked up her heels. When she managed to catch up, the cat was in the middle of the bridge, staring down at the flickering fires of Shantytown. It breathed in some of the lingering dust and sneezed, shaking its head. “Pepita! No more games!” Large eyes turned in her direction, stared, and then with one bounding leap the _alebrije_ was over the bridge and running in the direction of the plaza.

“Ay! No!” She habitually tried to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Ooh, you’re in _so_ much trouble when I catch you!” She ran out onto the main thoroughfare, stumbling to a stop when she realized it was empty. _This is no time for a lady to be on the streets_ , she thought faintly, a hand rising to her chest. She’d never seen the thoroughfare deserted like this—though, of course, she’d never been here in the middle of the night unless it was a holiday. The shadows seemed to creep over the trolley tracks, the alleys turning to gaping maws that could hold any number of nightmares for a seemingly vulnerable woman on her own.

“Pepita!” She saw the multicolored animal trotting up the thoroughfare leisurely, tail nearly brushing buildings on both sides as it swung. At the sound, it stuck straight in the air and Pepita turned her big head to look back yet again. There seemed to be a wry question in her eyes, though of course it _had_ to have been a trick of the light. “¡ _Pepita_ , _no estoy feliz contigo_!” she growled, standing in the middle of the street with her hands on her hips. “Here! Now!” Pepita trilled, the sound like a roll of thunder, and continued towards the plaza.

“No— _tch_! I don’t have time for this!” She jogged down the street after Pepita as quickly as possible, a chill creeping up her spine each time she passed a particularly large alley. She wished that someone would come along, a policeman or even some drunkards; yet, at the same time she hoped that no one noticed her. If she was caught running along an empty street in the dead of night, someone might start asking questions. The last thing she needed was to be arrested for looking suspicious.

At first glance, the plaza was empty. Moonlight gleamed through the thin branches of the small, neatly pruned trees in the flowerboxes; along with the light spilling from a few upstairs windows, it helped to throw the plaza into a dim twilight rather than shady darkness. The doors to the bar were closed, but raucous laughter and tinkling glass could be heard within. Shadows melded and meshed in the window, a macabre puppet show through half-broken shutters.

“Pepita?” she asked, voice hushed. Where could such a big animal have disappeared to so fast? She stomped past the arching threshold of the plaza, looking around the empty space for her pet. The fountain bubbled quietly, and the open space seemed harmless, but she stuck to the shadows as she slowly made her way past the closed boutiques. “Pep—”

There was a strum of a guitar, followed by a few wobbly chords and the dull twang of a missed note. Both hands flew to her mouth and she instantly pressed herself against the nearest wall, hoping that the shadows hid her. The plaza seemed abandoned, but the instrument had sounded too close for comfort. Whoever it was, she only hoped that she could see them before they saw her.

 _It might not be—_ no, it was him. _Just my luck._

He sat on a wall separating the bar from a row of apartments, his back against the rough bricks and legs splayed. His head was turned, looking at something on the other side of the wall, and she took the time to better hide herself in the nook between the hat shop and the _alebrije_ groomer’s. He paused mid-strum to drink from a half-empty bottle of tequila, throwing back his head with a gulp before wiping his mouth on his forearm.

 _Why is he here, of all places?_ She pressed her cheek to the plaster as she watched him pick the guitar up again. He fixed his fingering and began a small, mournful little tune. He stopped whenever he hit a sour note, taking another drink of the tequila before trying again. He looked frailer by moonlight, lingering cracks standing out in relief against the slowly whitening pallor of his bones. She knew that they were supposed to heal with memories, but she had no idea of how long it would take for his bones to be as white as hers or her family’s. His hair fell into his eyes, but she didn’t need to see them to know that he was unhappy; it was in the slump of his shoulders, the listless slide of his fingers against the strings.

 

 

“Are you not going to talk to me?”

She stiffened, shrinking further into the shadows. She glanced down at her boots, to make sure that the hem of her dress wasn’t giving her away. She’d been careful to keep herself hidden; how could he have seen her? Had he been paying attention when she’d first entered the plaza? From his vantage point, it would have been hard to see the archway and she had stayed close to the buildings. _No, he’s speaking to someone else, he couldn’t have—_

“Imelda?” He looked in her direction, eyes catching the light as they searched the shadows. _He can’t see me?_ She stayed frozen, rooted to the ground and afraid to blink lest the action catch his eye. _Then, how?_ A loud puff of hot air hit her spine, stirring her hair; she looked up to see Pepita standing behind her on the other side of the thin breezeway, taller than the plaza’s largest building. The alebrije stared directly at her, tail swinging in low, contented arcs. She cocked her head, blinking slowly as the jet engine purr started up in full force. _Ay, Pepita… **now** you decide to come?! _

“I don’t blame you,” he called out in her general direction, the beginnings of a drunken slur catching at the syllables. “I wouldn’t want to talk to me, either.” He slumped against the wall, jaw working as he stared at the guitar. Imelda stifled a hiss of annoyance; _why must you be so melodramatic, mi a—tonto… payaso tonto…._ She _could_ sneak away—in fact, that was probably the best course of action—but pride plucked at her insistently. Imelda Rivera hid from no one, especially not when he knew she was there to begin with. There was nothing to be done, except salvage her dignity and face him head-on.

 _I’m not ready for this…._ The cruel voice in her mind scoffed at her sliver of fear.

_A little late for that, isn’t it?_

“Héctor.” She took a deep breath, chin held high as she walked into the light. She quickly crossed the small expanse between them, pretending that she’d always intended to pass by him and was only doing so now because _she_ wanted it. Still, her bravado was not enough to bring her all the way to his side; she stopped a few yards from the wall, close enough to see his face yet far enough to—to what, run?

“Imelda.” He plucked a few strings, not looking in her direction.

“I… didn’t know you’d be here. I don’t want to disturb your playing.”

“I’m here sometimes.” He strummed a chord and frowned. She looked around the deserted plaza, jumping slightly when a muffled crash came from the bar.

“It’s a little late for a performance, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to keep any hint of confrontation from her voice. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” It seemed pointless to ask such questions, all the while dodging any real conversation they might have had. He was more than a passing acquaintance; she ought not to waste their time with such trivial inquiries.

“I don’t sleep much.” He took another, longer drink from the bottle, not caring that she watched. “Toño—that’s the guy that owns this place—” He muffled a belch in his fist before thumbing at the bar. “He lets me stay up here, so long as I don’t bother anyone. How could I bother _them_?” he laughed bitterly, suddenly. “I’m just dumb old forgotten Héctor.”

“What?” He laughed again, the sound jarring.

“I’m not a danger to anyone but myself.” He slammed his palm on the guitar strings, the harsh _twang_ echoing in the empty body. “Why are you out so late? Why aren’t _you_ in bed?”

“I…I was walking with Pepita.” Not a lie, not an excuse. He nodded, picking up the bottle and swishing its contents before letting out a low breath.

“Go home, _mi amor._ ” He smiled at the tequila. “There’s nothing here for a lady like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t answer, placing the bottle back at his side before starting a new tune. The twisting melody kept her feet glued to the stones, a faint memory washing over her. _This song_ …. It seemed familiar, though it wasn’t any one of his usual melodies. She could pick out no words from her mind, no lyrics to match the rising pitch that fell just as suddenly, two interlocking choruses chasing each other in circles. Perhaps it was only one of the half-finished songs he used to practice endlessly, running through chords like clockwork as he paced the bedroom in one of his brainstorming sessions. She always enjoyed watching him think, her back curled against the headboard while the ideas spark in his eyes.

“¿ _Qué pasa_?” He stopped, still not looking directly at her and instead staring blankly at the stone wall opposite him. “Did you need something from me?”

“No. I already told you that I didn’t know you’d be here.” He shrugged.

“Hmm. Well.” His fingers traced over the wooden body of the guitar, tapping out a short rhythm. “Don’t let me keep you from your walk.” He was offering her an exit. She ought to take it. She had every right to take it, in fact. It would probably be better for the both of them if she just walked away, right now. They could meet each other as old friends, polite and amicable without any lingering ties other than an old bond that was stretched past its limit.

She turned away, and even managed a step or two in the opposite direction. _You can leave. You don’t have to start this, not now. It’s not the best time: it’s the middle of the night, and you’re tired, and he’s been drinking. This isn’t the time nor the place for such a serious discussion._

She’d never been one for making good choices, not around him.

“Héctor….” She turned back, hands clenching into fists at her side. “I want to ask you a question.” There was no response; it was as if he hadn’t heard her at all. “Can I?” A beat. He shrugged again. “D—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard as the question stuck in her throat. “…Do you still love me?”

His hands tightened on the guitar.

She waited with mounting tension, wishing that he would do something, say something—at the very least, _look_ at her! Her chest fluttered, and then sank as he remained silent. She sucked in a breath, a lump forming in her throat. _What did you think the answer would be? How many times have you crushed him now? You’ve lost count, haven’t you?_  

“ _Por supuesto_.” His answer was quiet, so very unlike him. “You are my wife.” Something in it sounded so _wrong_ ; it rubbed her the wrong way and she was scolding him before she knew it.

“That shouldn’t—”

“Why would you even ask that question?” He did look at her now, though his expression was indiscernible. He threw his legs over the side of the wall, lanky form sliding off and stumbling once before righting himself. He drew up to his full height, pushing the hair out of his eyes. “You knew that answer already, Imelda.”

“I didn’t.” She pushed her fists behind her back, pressing them into her lower spine until it ached. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain still as he walked towards her. She wasn’t afraid of him, no matter how menacing the shadows on his skull seemed. The eyes that stared out at her from the deep sockets were his, even if they were just glass imitations.

“If I had stopped loving you, why would I have tried to reach you so many times?” It was a sensible question, one that she should have thought of herself. “Why would I bother to send you letters? Why would I ask to see you every day?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what _did_ you mean?” He stared at her uncomprehendingly. She set her jaw, squashing down the frustration she felt. _You started this. You could’ve walked away. Finish it._

“Héctor.” She closed her eyes. “If you were ever honest with me in your life, let it be right now. I want the truth.” _Steady, Imelda._ She opened them, meeting his gaze firmly. “Did you ever think of me when you were gone? Even once?” His mouth slackened, gold tooth catching the light as he blinked.

“You… you don’t know?” She scoffed, looking away. “Imelda—” He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, fingers accidentally slipping into his right socket. “Look: _escúchame_.” He reached for her chin and she jerked away, inadvertently catching his eyes once more. “I thought of you day and night—”

“Don’t _lie_ to me!”

“I’m not lying!” His chest heaved as he scowled at her. “Every night I went to bed, wishing you were there; every morning I woke up and you weren’t, and I—I just—I couldn’t bear it anymore! I wanted to come home. I missed Coco. I missed Santa Cecelia. I missed _you_.” His voice cracked. “I knew exactly what I was going to do when I got off the train. I was going to run home and throw open the door. I was going to give Coco the biggest hug I could, and then I was going to find you and show you just how _much_ I missed you.”

 “Héctor….” She couldn’t shout at him now; every word rang of truth, flavored with liquid courage.

“Even if you were angry with me, I just wanted to hold you one more time—if I could just _touch_ you again, before you threw me out, I thought—” He reached for her as he spoke, arms extended to gather her up the way he meant to a century ago. She drew back instinctively, hands rising to her chest, and he let them drop before looking away. “The photo: it was for you, you know.”

“The… photo? You mean the one Ernesto took?” He nodded.

“I was going to send it to you in a letter. I wanted you to be able to look at it and remember me. But then when I realized that I wanted to come home, I kept the photo instead. I thought you’d appreciate the real thing more.” He let out a hollow chuckle. “That’s why I had it in my pocket when I died. Some consolation, right? I hadn’t even written on the back yet. Even if I had the photo, no one knew who I was. Not when Ernesto stole my luggage.”

“I don’t know if it would have mattered at that point. I was so angry with you for not coming back… I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d known the truth back then.” There was a loud peal of laughter from the bar; she winced, flinching away from it.

“Here; come on.” He motioned for her to follow, going to sit on one of the long metal benches near the empty stretch of plaza where street vendors set up shop. She followed reluctantly, staring at him before sitting as far away on the bench as she could, tucking her skirts beneath her legs. He crossed his arms and slumped in the seat, sneaking glances at her from time to time. They sat in silence, neither one knowing what to say to bridge the gap as the bar continued to pulse with life behind them.

“Look,” he finally sighed. “Just tell me straight: do you even—want to _try_?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at her lap, plucking at a stray thread. “Things are different now.” She frowned, trying to think of a way to explain what she felt. She needed him to understand. “I can’t just pretend that my life never happened. I lived it, and I lived it _without you_.”

“I get it.”

“Do you?” He forced a laugh, the sound rising too high to be anything natural from him.

“Imelda, do you not realize that I had a lifetime without you, too?”

“But you—”

“I died, so what?!” He sounded angry now, though she could hear vexation beneath the ire. “I might have been dead, but I was still here!” He waved an arm at the plaza, the City of the Dead rising beyond to spiral up and meet the clouds. “I’m still your age, in here.” He tapped at his skull with one finger. “I lived here… without you. For all these years. That counts for something.”      

“I know it does, but—” The years-old exasperation welled inside her; despite her concern that someone in the bar might come out to investigate, she couldn’t keep her voice down. “Héctor, you’re looking for the woman you married, and I’m not her anymore! She’s gone!”

“I’m not looking for anyone!” he retorted just as loudly, running his hands through his hair and making the ends stand straight. “All I ever wanted was _you_ ,” he said plainly. “Do you think I’m the same, either? Do I _look_ like the man you married?”

“Yes!”

“How?!” He leapt to his feet, swaying slightly. “I am a _skeleton_!”

“What does that matter?!” She pointed up to his face, the cheekbones she knew so well, the pointy chin, the big eyes that always seemed childlike no matter how serious he was. “To me, you’re the same!”

“ _Eso es_.” He stood there, arms limp as his wide eyes searched her face. “To me… you are the same.” Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. She groaned under her breath, holding a hand to her forehead.

“Héctor, we—it’s been nearly a hundred years. We barely know anything about each other anymore.” He fell back onto the bench, fingers lacing in the metal bands holding up the back. He turned his torso to her, spine clacking disjointedly as his vertebrae rubbed against each other.

“And? That doesn’t mean we can’t still feel something for each other. We can still have the same emotions that—”

“ _No, we can’t_.”

“Can’t we? I know I do.” She felt his eyes boring a hole in the side of her skull. “Do you still love me?” He parroted her earlier question. _Yes. No. I don’t know._

She hesitated too long.

“I see.” He looked away, shoulders hunched.

“Héctor…” When he looked back, his face was calm and impassive.

“At least tell me this: would you do it again? Even knowing how it ends up, nothing changing—would you choose me again?” This time, there was no need to hesitate.

“ _S_ _í_. Because you gave me Coco.” Her daughter… no matter how much _she_ suffered as his wife, Coco had been the best thing to ever happen to her. She would choose him time and time again, if it meant she had her lovely little girl.

“Coco,” he agreed flatly. “Yes, at least I could do _that_ right.”

“ _Por Dios_ , Héctor—” She fisted her dress, the folds slipping between her fingerbones as she cleared her throat. She tried to speak as calmly as she could, but to her embarrassment her voice cracked with tears. “You really were the love of my life… but I can’t tell you that I love you if I don’t know you. What if—what if we’ve both changed so much that we just don’t match anymore?”

“I—”

“I don’t want to find out, if that’s the case. A part of me… a part of me is _afraid_ to know.” The admission slipped out without her knowledge, hanging in the air between them. His stony façade slipped, but quickly fell back into place.

“I don’t want to argue with you about who’s changed.” He rubbed his palm over his mouth, scratching at the swirls on his chin. “You wanted me to leave you alone, and I did. If you still want that—if you can’t forgive me for all that happened back then, I understand. Tell me now, and you won’t have to see me again. But don’t give me hope, Imelda. I’ve lived with hope for over ninety years. I can’t do it anymore.” He stared at his bare feet. “You’ve got to tell me now.”

“Héctor?” He looked at her; despite the neutral twist of his mouth, his eyes told her all that she needed to know.

“Whatever your choice,” he continued hoarsely, swallowing hard, “do what’s best for you. And for your family. All I ask is that you let me see Coco, just once. So that I can tell how much I love her. You don’t even have to be there if you don’t want to.”

“I—”

“And… I want you to promise me that you’ll never blame yourself for what I did. Swear it—swear it on anything you believe in. Swear on your shoes.”

“Héctor—”

“ _Swear it_. If you have to blame someone… keep blaming me.” He hung his head, staring blankly at his hands, curled on his lap. “I can’t stand it when you look like that… like you’re at fault. You didn’t do anything wrong; you were never in the wrong.”

“That’s not true.”

“ _Imelda_!”

“I was in the wrong,” she repeated firmly. “But not then. Later.”

“Huh?”

“I never gave you a chance to explain yourself. I didn’t want to. Even back then…  if I had been wrong, if _I_ had been the one to make a mistake, I didn’t want to know about it. It was so much easier to just be angry at _you_. I hate being angry at myself. I hate having to say… that I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I do.” She slowly let go of her skirts, readying herself to swallow her pride. It was a bitter dose, but it was something that had to be done. “Héctor, I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to let you tell me your side of the story. If I had known what Ernesto—”

“Imelda, _I_ hadn’t known about Ernesto until Miguel told me about the movie. I should’ve, but I didn’t want to put the pieces together. He was my friend… I trusted him. I thought—I guess that doesn’t matter now.” 

“No, it doesn’t.” She paused. “Do you accept my apology?”

“There was nothing to apologize for. You shouldn’t be sorry that your husband is an idiot.”

“But do you—”

“ _S_ _í_ , _mi_ —Imelda. If it gives you peace, then I accept your apology.” She nodded, feeling the pressure in her chest ease somewhat with the words.

“One more question.” He rolled his eyes, but nodded.

“Go ahead.”

“Was there… did I ever have a chance of changing your mind, back then?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you left. I tried to make you stay.” He flinched. “I always did wonder… was there something I could have done, or said, or—”

“No.” She stopped, startled at the confession. “There was nothing. I was doing what I thought was right for my family. I thought you’d thank me later.”

“Even after I asked you to stay?”

“Yes. I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

“Try.” He let out a low breath, fingers resting on his knees.

“Your papá,” he said suddenly. “He was a hardworking man. He offered me a job with him, as his partner.”

“Papá?” she repeated, not believing her ears. “When did—”

“When you told your parents that you were pregnant. He asked me to go into business with him and take it over when he died. I think he knew he wasn’t going to be around for much longer. I was young, a quick learner. And let’s face it: did you ever see your brothers becoming stonemasons?” She couldn’t help but laugh at that; he smiled at the sound.

“No, I don’t think either of them would have ever been happy as a laborer.”

“I didn’t think I would be, either.” He looked at the fountain, his eyes following the water as it cascaded into the base. “Ernesto said we’d make more money on the road in two months than I would in two years as a worker. And I was proud of my own talent; I wanted a chance to see if I could do something with it.” He held up his hands. “These were musician’s hands, not bricklayer’s hands. I thought if I could provide for you while still doing what I loved… it would have been worth it.”

“You fool.” She shook her head. “I could have helped you. You could have played, and I could have still learned a trade. The shoe business, we could have—”

“I didn’t _want_ you to work! What kind of man needs his wife to help him keep a roof over their heads? I didn’t want the town to talk about us that way. I didn’t want them saying that you were a fool to marry me.”

“They said a lot worse when you abandoned me.” His eyes widened; apparently, he hadn’t thought of that. “They said that I’d ran you off. I started to wonder if they were right.”

“No!” He shook his head roughly. “Never! I could never figure out what they meant, anyway. You weren’t _mean_ , you were feisty, and passionate.” He sighed, a smile touching the edges of his mouth. “Oh, I loved it. You were always so full of life… you still are.”

 “Héctor, I’m _dead_.”

“No one would ever guess it.” She snorted, shaking her head but still pleased by the compliment. “I meant it when I said you still got it. You—you’re really something else.” She couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face, a bubble of warmth radiating through her from the chest outwards.

“Thank you,” she whispered, staring down at her hands. Here it was, the same shyness that had claimed her at the Sunrise Spectacular. It wasn’t a foreign feeling; rather, it was one that she only associated with him. He was the only man who could ever disarm her with words alone. It hadn’t helped that he could weave such brilliant melodies that had her melting for him, mortified and yet adoring every minute of it. He was his most dangerous this way, when he wasn’t trying to impress her. She had loved his sincerity far more than any half-stammered, uncertain flirting.

“Imelda….” He thumped at the metal bars on the seat between them, making an offkey tune as he avoided her eyes. “Do you—do you think you’d want to start over? With me, I mean.”

“Start over?” He nodded.

“You said—you said that we didn’t know each other anymore. Do you want to—I mean, we could take it slow. I could come and take you out, and we could learn again. Would you want to try?” Would she? Did he really want to start from the very beginning, like they’d never married at all? Could that even work? She looked away, confused. What he was suggesting wasn’t ridiculous by any means, but it meant taking that leap. And he expected an answer; he’d asked her to let him know, not to beat around the bush but to tell him straight out if he even had a ghost of a chance with her. He took her silence as hesitation, reaching out for her hand before faltering.

“Maybe it’s because I’m a little drunk,” he admitted, “but I want—I want to fall in love with you again. I think it would be fun, you know? We stopped going out after we had Coco. Now, we can try again, if you want to. It’s okay if you _don’t_ want to,” he added quickly, perhaps feeling that he was pushing her. “I meant what I said before. If you’re done, then we’re done. I’ll stop bothering you. Even a guy like me knows not to pester a lady when she’s uninterested.”

“You pestered me for a full year before climbing the wall to ask me out!” she retorted with a huff, avoiding an answer for the moment.

“Ah, but you were interested.” He had a point. “So…?”

“Wh-what exactly did you have in mind?” She wished that her hair wasn’t up, so that she could yank on it. She settled with twisting the folds of her dress in her hands.

“Well, what about I come to call on you tomorrow? If you don’t hide upstairs, that is.” She jumped, a hot wave of embarrassment washing over her. He’d known she’d been upstairs all along, even with her family’s excuses?! _That—augh!_  And of course he’d go along with it, too kind to do any more than pretend to believe every word they said.

“Hmph!”

“Hey, hey.” He smirked, but didn’t press the issue. “I’ll come by tomorrow around two o’ clock—is that okay?”

“Y-yes… but _promise_ that you’ll restrain yourself around my family.” She frowned. “I’d rather not have them—you said we could start slow.”

“Of course, if that’s what you want. I can do slow. I can be the _slowest_ guy you’ll ever meet; it’s like I’m crawling everywhere I go!” He stopped himself, clearing his throat. “The real question is if you’ll be able to keep your hands off me; I am _muy guapo_ when I get cleaned up, after all. You might not be able to control your urges when you—”

 _“Slow_ , Héctor.”  He obediently fell quiet. “I suppose… that I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Or later today,” she amended, looking up at the slowly brightening sky. By the time she managed to get herself home and in bed, it would be nearing dawn. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt, the fabric creasing as she pulled it taunt.

“Hey,” he laughed, fingers dancing over his wide grin. “Since we’re starting over, and you agreed to a date, does this mean I get a kiss?” She froze, eyes narrowing at her lap. _So much for slow._ He sensed her change in mood, immediately backtracking as he stumbled to correct himself. “Too much? Yeah, too much. After all, I still have to climb a wall for that. Aha-ha, silly me. Forget I said anything. I’m getting too drunk—that was my second bottle, I probably need to go…lie….”

His stammering trailed off as she put a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. He practically vibrated with nervous energy, going cross-eyed as he tried to look at her hand. She frowned sternly at him, waiting for him to calm. She couldn’t do what he wanted—it was still too much, and they were both clearly tired, and it was late. But she didn’t want to leave him with nothing, either.

She took his skull in her hands, thumbs tracing the swooping pattern of his markings before gently tugging him towards her once she knew he was stay quiet. He seemed to turn to stone beneath her, staring at her with a fierce, longing sort of hope that made her heart drop into her stomach, though she no longer had either. She soaked up the expression, holding onto it—why, she didn’t know—before gently tipping his chin forward. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, every bone in his body locked into place with anticipation.

She brushed the lank, dusty hair from his forehead before kissing the bone, right on top of the swirls. Although the touch was innocent enough a warm rush of affection ran through her from head to toe, settling behind her ribs. _I really have missed him._ A part of her wanted to clasp him to her, to kiss his cheeks, his chin, pouring a part of herself back into him in hopes that the warmth might overflow, running from her to him through the sweet, chaste kisses.

 _Slow_. They both needed to gradually close the distance, despite whatever their instincts might be. There would be time enough for everything, now. He wasn’t going to go anywhere: his family remembered him, Ernesto was nowhere near them, and he wasn’t about to start playing for the world anytime soon. She pressed a moment longer before leaning away; his eyes were closed, his skull seeming to sag into her hands as if they were the only thing holding him upright.

“ _Estoy soñando_ …” he murmured hoarsely.

“For your sake, I hope not.” He opened his eyes at her voice, and she felt a little bashful when she saw how overcome he really was. “I’ll see you later. This afternoon.” She stood briskly, brushing off her skirt without looking back at him.  

“Uh-huh…” He mumbled, still star struck. “I mean—yes, this afternoon.” She nodded once to him before walking towards the plaza entrance where Pepita waited patiently, washing her whiskers. She looked back to find him on his feet, staring at her. He jerked and gave a little wave, one foot inching towards the wall where his belongings sat. Flustered, she returned it and then all but ran out of the plaza, snapping her fingers for Pepita to follow. The _alebrije_ obeyed, no longer running away but instead trotting behind her on her best behavior.

The house was still quiet when she unlocked the back door, Pepita sniffing her before curling up to lay in the middle of the courtyard. She locked the door behind her, putting the key back on the wall. The clock chimed three times, whirring tirelessly. Her family was sleeping, their soft breaths mingling together unevenly. She closed her door, draping the shawl over the chair and lying on the already-made bed with her clothes still on, boots dangling off the end.

For a long, seemingly endless moment the tension of the evening stretched before her. She felt caught between two halves of a rope, pulled in both directions with no clue how she was to break free. Then it snapped, all at once, and she realized just what she’d done. _I’ve kissed him. He is coming… here… for a date. We’re going to try._ She put her trembling fingers to her mouth and found that she was smiling—no, _laughing_ , silent laughter that shook her shoulders and almost felt like crying.

Night faded to morning and she could not sleep, but she did _rest_. She lay on her side, too tired to get up and change into her nightclothes and yet not able to close her eyes. Her knees curled, and she buried her face into the plush comfort of her pillow. _I’ve felt this before._ This sense of the unknown, that her life was about to change, the excitement and trepidation all rolled up into something so palpable that, if she were to reach out, she could _touch_ it—yes, this was all familiar. She felt seventeen again, a not-yet-grown woman lying awake at predawn, trying to prepare herself for her wedding.

 _I’m not getting married to him again_ , she thought. _But… why does it feel like I am?_  


	12. I'm Married! (And I'm Proud)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor’s got a hot date! But first, he’s got to clean up.

Liquor always helped Héctor to sleep better.

He never tried to get blackout drunk, of course; he wasn’t a _kid_. He knew his limits. He just liked to take the edge off, to have a good time while forgetting the ache in his ribs, in his leg, in his heart. The latter hurt the worst of them all, and he’d discovered early on that a temporary cure could be found at the bottom of an empty glass. One bottle, maybe two—just enough to dull his senses and send him into a dreamless sleep without the fuzzy phantom hangover lingering in his empty stomach cavity the next day.

Of course, that didn’t help if he wasn’t left alone.

“ _Oye_.” Who? Who was trying to bother him at this hour? Didn’t they understand that he was _happiest_ this way, with no emotions to weigh him down and make life miserable? What was the point of unconscious, thoughtless sleep if he wasn’t allowed to _enjoy_ it? 

_Five more minutes, Chich. Then I **swear** I’ll get up. _

Someone poked at his leg, prodding the bone. This wasn’t Chich; he’d have been dragged out of the hammock by now if it was. Wait, he wasn’t even in a hammock, was he? Whatever he sat against was solid and rough against his back, hard beneath his hipbones. A moan stirred deep in his chest and he tried to turn, though something told him turning wasn’t the best idea. He barely opened one eye, seeing the faded green plaster of the _Casa de Arquímedes_. _Wait… when did I get to the plaza?_ He closed his eyes against the color, garish in the early morning light.

“Oh, no you don’t.” The voice wasn’t Chich, on second thought. Still gruff, still raspy with smoke and shouting, but too patient to ever belong to Chicharrón. _Oh yeah… Chich is gone._ A wave of bone-chilling sorrow washed over him. He ought to have been used to losing friends to the Final Death. How many had he sat vigil over, watching them fade out of existence as they were forgotten by the living world? Growing numbers didn’t make it easier, though, and he had been close to the old grump. A fellow music lover, a stern voice of reason, someone who needed Héctor to be the cheerful clown to his straight-man routine. 

“ _Nngh…._ ” He kicked at the bothersome hand, which was now exploring the empty curve between his tibia and fibula. _Ay, that’s ticklish_! His heel hit the edge of his guitar and it protested with a dull _twang_.

“Get up, Héctor; I know you’re awake.” A brisk, no-nonsense order that left no room for debate; the voice stirred his memory and he muffled a sigh, shoulders sinking against the wall. It was just the bartender. That made sense; if he was facing the green apartments, his back was to the bar. “Two bottles aren’t enough to put _you_ down for the count.”

  _I just fell asleep on the wall again, that’s all._ It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened; since there was no one looking out for him, it was easier to sleep wherever he pleased. What was the point in going home if no one cared whether or not he was there?

“Have a heart, Toño; _es domingo._ ” He stretched his legs subtly, toes wiggling as he crossed his arms and settled against the wall. “ _Por Dios_ , let a man get some rest.” There was a choked laugh.

“I know what day it is _._ Come on.” The hand was at his shoulder now, shaking roughly. “Open your eyes, _dormilón_.” He scowled, shaking him off with a quick flick of his shoulders. “Hey! Listen, I’m just making sure you’re okay.” He cracked one eye to see Toño’s skull hovering near his, looking oddly concerned.

“Huh?” He rubbed his eyes, sitting up and cracking his neck. “What do you mean?”

“You, uh… you didn’t seem yourself last night, _amigo_.” Toño scratched at the black ink dots near his chin. “You were a little—how should I put it— _weird_.” Héctor thought back, trying to sort through the slurred memories.

He remembered Shantytown, the empty bungalow suddenly too big and too quiet. The silent walk to the bar, in search of something stout and sharp to cut through the bitterness bubbling inside of him. Staring blankly at Toño, he recalled shouting at him last night. Arguing over the price of tequila. Yanking the bottle out of his hands after calling him as good as a thief, the patrons at the bar laughing and making him angrier. He’d stomped outside to sit alone beneath the moon, raging at the world from his perch between stormy playing sessions. At the time he’d felt justified in his hurt, but now it just seemed… well, _childish_. 

“Oh… last night.” He cleared his throat, offering an embarrassed shrug and a large, fake smile. “Sorry about that. I guess I just wasn’t feeling myself.” He’d been feeling _far_ from himself, or at least from the face he presented to the world. He’d been lonely and tired and miserable, his melodies had all fallen flat no matter how well he’d played, his friends were gone, his drinks outrageously expensive…. Nothing had seemed fair.

“Yeah, I noticed.” Toño steadied himself, leaning on the ledge as though it were a bar counter. The golden triangles fringing his lower sockets seemed to glow in the light of their sunbeam counterparts. “I figured as much, the way you were arguing with that woman.”

“Woman?” _That_ was a new one; he must have had a good few drinks in him by then, if he’d openly traded words with a lady. Had he accidentally startled her, and then fought about it? He tried to think back, but after a few hours of guitar playing the world melted into a mix of half-remembered thoughts. Toño, growing tired of waiting, picked up his foot and rattled it to get his attention; his toes rattled like their musical bone counterparts. “Hey, _stop_ it!”

“The _woman_ , Héctor.”

“I don’t—what did she look like?” He rubbed his forehead, trying to think.  _What happened?_ “What did she say?”

“I never saw her face, and I couldn’t hear either of you; the boys were getting rowdy after midnight. I had gone to get ready for last-call when I saw the two of you on that bench.” He pointed as he spoke, singling out the bench in front of the bar. “Your backs were to me, but then you jumped up and started waving your arms around. You looked pretty pissed, and I wondered if I needed to come outside myself.”

Héctor felt his face grow hot, appalled at what he was hearing. _I was acting like **that** , and on just two bottles? Ay… that poor woman…. _He fidgeted, wishing that Toño _had_ come out to knock his skull around a little; at the very least, he could have put him in his place while making sure the lady was alright. He didn’t think he’d ever strike a woman, but he never thought he would’ve yelled at one, either.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Because you settled down pretty quick after that. She didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, either, and you weren’t holding her back. You weren’t even touching her, and…well, you’re not a bad guy, not like some of these idiots.” He nodded to the now-empty bar. “You’ve always paid your debts and never started a fight if you could help it; I trust you. It turned out okay, didn’t it? I looked again later and you were asleep, with no sign of her. I just wondered who she might have been. You seemed to know each other.”

“We did?” He stared down at his lap, trying hard to put events in order. The bar, the arguing, the anger, the guitar. Those were easy. What next? Moonlight. The plaza was empty. He was still angry, but the acrid liquor was fueling it rather than his own hurt pride. Toño, walking outside to slip him a second bottle on the house. The bench, metal cool and smooth beneath his finger. Talking, knowing he was drunk but not really caring, Imelda kissing his—

“Imelda!” Toño jumped, arms swinging as he tipped back with a cry of alarm. He managed to grab the ledge as Héctor sat ramrod straight, wig slipping over his eyes in his excitement. He pushed it back impatiently, eyes widening as something like a pulse began to shudder to life in his empty ribcage. Imelda had been here! He remembered now, her glowing form slipping from the shadows to stand before him. He’d been ashamed to sit in her presence, filthy and broken, while she looked so ethereal and beautiful. 

Yes, she had most assuredly been here last night. She’d watched him play, and—had they argued? He remembered talking to her, but nothing that constituted a real fight.

“Imelda? I don’t know that name.” Toño shook his head, mouth twisting as he thought. “She must not live around here then, huh? She didn’t look like one of your Shantytown friends, though. Did she come looking for you?”

“I—I don’t think so.” Why _had_ she come? She’d said she’d been taking a walk, but she’d stayed to talk to him. He remembered her sadness, the way she’d apologized to him, her body sagging wearily against the bench. Why talk to him in the middle of the night like that? The last he’d seen of her, she’d begged him to not touch her, to leave her alone. He’d remembered that, even after drinking—he recalled saying as much to her, reminding her that he’d honored her request.

“Who is she? Do you owe her something?” Oh, did he ever.

“She’s… my wife.” Toño’s mouth fell slack. He stared at him, trying to find any sign of deceit or joking.

“Your… your wife?!” He repeated, blinking as he processed the information. “I didn’t know you—when did you get a wife, Héctor? Here I was, thinking you were just an old bachelor with too much time on your hands.”

“No, I’m married.” They sat a moment, the words sinking in. For the bartender, it was pure shock; for him, it was something else. _I’m married._ The words fell over and over in his mind like a wave, crashing against the very real memory of lips against his forehead. Her hands on his skull, fingers running over his cheekbones the way they used to when she—when he was— A tremor ran through him from head to foot, a wave of heat following in its wake. It left him tingling and _alive,_ more alive than he’d felt in a century.

“I’m married!” He leapt to his feet, breathing heavily as the implication set in. “I’m—haha!” He hugged himself, torso twirling on his spine as he laughed loudly. “I’m really _married_!” he shouted, the sound echoing down through his body and building until he had no choice but to let it out. “A-y-y-y-y-e-e-e-e!!!!” He howled one of his most exuberant _gritos_ , the sound bouncing around the empty plaza.

“For God’s sake, you’re going to wake everyone up!” Toño scolded. He stared openmouthed at Héctor, hand raised against the sun. “What on earth has gotten into you!?”

“She wants me back, Toño! I’m married, and she wants me back!” He let out another, shorter _grito._ “A-y-y-e-h-e-h-e! She really _wants_ me!”  

“Héctor!” A window crashed open, a nightgown-clad woman leaning out of it to brandish a house slipper. “Keep it down!”

 “Hey, Doña Eva!” he called back, a grin splitting his skull. “Guess what? I’m _married_!” The woman paused, narrowing her eyes, and then pointed the boot at Toño.

“Can’t you make him go be drunk somewhere else!?” Toño shrugged, and she scoffed before slamming the window, glass rattling in the loose pane.

“Uh, look: can’t this wait until midmorning, at least? Not everyone’s so keen to hear you screaming at the top of your lungs on a Sunday.”

 “Wait? No! I have to tell the world; I can’t believe it! She even—” His hand rose to his forehead, fingers brushing against the markings reverently. “She kissed me, Toño. She kissed _me_.”

“Mazel tov.” He rested his chin on his hand. “I’m real happy for you, Héctor.”

“No, you don’t understand.” He slid down to sit on the ledge, overcome. “I never imagined… I mean, I _hoped_ , but I never thought I’d actually see the day where she’d kiss me again.” He clenched his hands, bouncing in excitement. “And we’re going out this afternoon! Oh, I can’t wait to—oh.” The light vanished from his face in one fell swoop. “Oh, _no_!”

“What?”

“I can’t go out with her, not like this!” He grabbed both ends of his bandana, yanking and effectively choking himself as it cinched his spine. “Look at me! I’m a wreck!”

“That you are.” Toño winced, shaking his head. “In more ways than one.”

“I don’t have anything else to wear!” He covered his face, knees rising to his chest as he muffled a cry. “I can’t let her be seen with me like _this_! She’ll be a laughingstock!”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Toño lied. “A little polish, some water on that crazy hair, and you’ll be ready to go.” He tried to smile, his teeth bared in a grimace. “You know, they say grungy is the height of fashion, real _cool_ with the teens.”  

“What? Eww, what are kids doing these days? Why would you want to look like this on purpose?” He made a face, wishing that he still had a nose to wrinkle. “Besides, Imelda’s from my time. I have to look presentable, you know? Someone who might deserve to have a classy lady like her on his arm.” He straightened up, holding out said arm with what he thought was a dapper smirk. He caught sight of his ragged sleeve and wilted, blowing the bangs out of his eyes. “Not… _this_.”

“Well, I’d offer you some clean clothes, but—” Toño sucked in a breath through his teeth before laughing, skull disappearing over the ledge as he climbed down. Héctor grabbed his guitar before sliding down to join him on the ground. With the two of them on flat earth, the bartender barely cleared his third rib. “You’re on your own with this one, I’m sorry to say.” A moment of panic flashed over Héctor’s features, and he succumbed to it with his usual fretfulness. “You need to be on one of those makeover shows, where they take you in and redo everything.”

“Ha, makeover.” He blinked, eyes widening. “No, no, no: wait. _Wait_ … Yes! Makeover! Toño, you’re a genius!” He clapped his hands once, panic forgotten in a wave of determination. “I know _just_ who to call.” 

“Whatever you say.”

* * *

The arts district was quiet.

Most artists seldom rose before 10:00, but Héctor wasn’t worried. He knew their patterns just as easily as he did those of the plaza, and the other neighborhoods he frequented in his century-long roving. He knew who would be awake early, who hadn’t gone to sleep at all the night before, and who would be thrown across the nearest flat surface in a drunken stupor. These people—patrons of all arts—lived like they were in college no matter _how_ old they’d been when they died. It was something about the free spirit that didn’t hold them to one age… that, or they had long stopped caring about their own health in a city where only the Forgotten were in danger of dying again.

“ _Hola,_ Ceci!” Nerves gnawed at his empty stomach cavity, but when the third-floor window opened he still managed a syrupy grin. “Your favorite guy’s here to see you!”

“I don’t see him,” she replied dryly. “I only see you, Héctor.”

“Haha! Always the jokester!” Ceci regarded him from on high, her mouth set in a thin line. She seemed back to normal, her bitterness mellowed now that the stress of the Sunrise Spectacular was over for another year—perhaps forever. He wondered, briefly, what she would do to make up the difference.

The show was the bread and butter for nearly everyone in the arts district. Performers weren’t the only ones in danger of losing a big pay cut at the most crucial time of the year: makeup artists, choreographers, stage technicians, decorators, and so many more depended on the hefty payout to make their ends meet. _Maybe they can have the show without Ernesto somehow._ Tangled in his thoughts, he barely noticed that she was speaking again.

“Héctor!” She leaned out the window, brandishing his arm. “I _said_ , what do you want?!”

“Let me in, Ceci!” He waved for her to toss down his arm. “Please?” She frowned, but obediently tossed his arm over the railing of the fire escape before banging the old hinge crank with her fist. The stairs dropped with a rusty shriek of metal, clanging to the ground and echoing up the narrow road. There were shouts from tenements and alley-sleepers, angry at being woken. He scurried up the stairs, more like a ladder than an actual staircase. He even took the time to wind the crank and raise them again, knowing that anything he could do to put Ceci in a good mood was well worth it for him in the end.

 Ceci’s studio was surprisingly tidy, even with it being the slow season. She had various buckets and bins for all her supplies, but normally they were still spread out over the floor along with skeins and empty bolts of cloth. She often became so focused on her work that the studio became a madhouse, the only clean area being the small circle of floor she stood on. Even the dressmaker’s dummies were empty. Héctor paused at the window, looking around at the rare sight with trepidation. Either Ceci was having an artist’s block, or she had _no_ orders at all. Either way, that wasn’t going to help him.

He drew closer to the worktable, looking down at scattered designs. It was for some dresses, and he was content to look at the highly skilled drawings like a child unable to read. He could make nothing of the elaborate equations that went into designing clothes, the detailed dimensions of pleats and tucks in one single section of skirt. It was a craft beyond his understanding, but he was fine with that. He had no more need of learning clothes than Ceci did learning music. They both appreciated the final product without any concrete knowledge of how it worked behind the scenes.

He snapped his arm back into place, still unused to the heavy magnetic tugged that all but ribbed the bones out of his hand and into the socket. The Forgotten had to take care of their bones; there wasn’t enough memory to keep them together once they’d been split, and it was often a matter of forcing the bones together and hoping that they held just _one more time_. Now that the memory flowed through him, it was harder to separate than it was to be put back together.

Ceci ignored him as he rotated his shoulder, making sure the bone was snugly in the right place and wouldn’t rub against him. She bent over her drawings, pencil stuck into her curls instead of behind an ear. Héctor was used to this, too; it didn’t faze him in the slightest to see her more interested in her musings than in the bum frequenting her studio. What _wasn’t_ usual was the motheaten loveseat that had been shoved against what was once a bare stretch of cracked plaster, and the squat man spread out on its lumpy cushions with his hat over his eyes.

“Gustavo?” There was no answer, so Héctor walked over and plucked the hat off his face. He twisted his head, staring down at the sullen violinist. “What are you doing here?” This was highly unusual; Gustavo was one of those self-important jerks who didn’t think it was fair to get out of bed before sundown.

“He got dumped,” Ceci explained briskly, passing by the loveseat and dragging down two bolts of multicolored cloth from one of the shelves. They spilled across the floor in her wake, but she made no effort to check them; instead, she picked up the ends and held them to her designs with a frown, muttering under her breath as she chewed one of her curls.

“Ooo.” Héctor winced in sympathy, cringing back from the loveseat as if heartbreak were a contagious disease. Gustavo was _far_ from his favorite guy in the Land of the Dead, but he still felt bad for him. He’d feel bad for _anyone_ who had their heart handed to them like that. He’d already had enough experience with Imelda to know that the pain was sometimes worse than dying. The musician didn’t deserve that—well, unless he was being a complete jerk, which was highly probable.

But maybe he was just soft, since he still felt bad for him.

“I was not!” Gustavo ripped the hat back out of Héctor’s hands, jamming it over his face and nearly stuffing the brim down his left socket in his haste to cover his eyes from the cruel morning. “It was a mutual parting of ways,” he mumbled. Ceci rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she took her pencil and chewed it instead of her hair. She tapped the lead against her forehead absently as she thought, leaving little dots along the bone.  She didn’t offer her opinion on the matter; then again, she’d probably already given it while Héctor was still snoozing on the ledge.

Héctor shrugged down at him, even if he couldn’t see it. If Gustavo wanted to live in denial, let him. He was kind of like the new arrivals to Shantytown, still clinging onto shreds of hope that it might have been a mistake, that they might be put on the ofrenda next year. Everyone understood the truth sooner or later; even he had made that awful realization, though he’d still been stubborn enough to try and cross the bridge without a photo. Most people just settled into their new, albeit sub-par, life and did the best they could. He’d come around too, eventually. Saying sorry only went so far, in matters of love and life alike.

 “Uh, Ceci.” He turned back to her, preparing to state his case and lose what little dignity he still had in her eyes. He wasn’t above groveling to get what he wanted, and this was a reason worth groveling over. He cleared his throat, adopting his best, most pathetic tone for begging. “I need a _little_ favor.”

“Nope.” She unstuck some pins from her wrist, driving them into the table to hold some of her designs higher than others. She didn’t even look at him.

“No? You don’t even know what it is yet!” he protested, hopping around to stand behind the table. He leaned over it with a smile, and she glanced up at him before jabbing a pin into one of his carpal bones. It couldn’t do any damage, but the pressure of the sharpened tip _didn’t_ feel good. Pressure on bones was about as painful as things could get in the Land of the Dead, though the amount of pain did have to do with how far the other person was aiming to hurt you. He shook the sting from his hand, pouting at her. “Ceci!”

“You think I’ve forgotten _Día de Los Muertos_ , you big dummy?!” Her curls bounced around her face as she put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “I nearly gave myself an ulcer trying to throw together a costume to replace the one you lost!”

“You did not,” he replied matter-of-factly, crossing his arms. “You don’t have a stomach.”

“Ugh.” She slapped a palm onto her designs. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Behind her, Gustavo sat up and peered from beneath his hat curiously. “The answer is _no_. N-O _no_. Nada. Nothing. Not from me. Go find another seamstress to mooch off of.”

“Ceci…”

“Go away, Héctor. I’m not in the mood for _chisme_ , and you’re only around whenever you want something.”

“That’s not true!” She gave him a look over the rims of her glasses, and he felt guilty enough to lose his smile. Maybe he _did_ only come by when he needed her. He’d said to himself that he was trying not to bother her, and he didn’t like seeing the other musicians who’d just make fun of him at his expense. But how many months had it been since he’d visited before asking to borrow the Frida dress? He couldn’t remember, and suddenly felt a little ashamed. “Okay, maybe it is a little true. I apolo—” he stopped himself, hearing the old fake apology about to spill out of him. “I’m sorry.”

“Well.” She turned back to her diagrams, erasing a gusset with her pencil and redrawing it. “Apology accepted,” she said, surprising him. He had never thought she particularly _enjoyed_ his company, yet… why was she wanting him to visit more than once a year? “But the answer is still no.”

“Look, Ceci: I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He stopped his pitiful act, taking off his hat and holding it over his ribcage. The woman’s shoulders hunched over the table, hands fisting over the drawings. “I know I’m not the most reliable guy, but at least hear me out? I _really_ need your help this time. No tricks, no plans.”

“What,” she asked, not looking up. “Are you in trouble with the law?”

“No, not this time.” He wasn’t going to put her—any friend, for that matter—through _that_ again. She sighed, rubbing her forehead.

“Héctor.” She took one look at him, standing forlornly on the other side of the table, and groaned before raising her hands to the heavens. “ _Dios ayúdame_ : why can’t I bring myself to throw you idiots out?!” She motioned at Gustavo. “Psychiatric services, on-demand costumes? What next?!”

“Heh…” Héctor shrugged one shoulder. “It’s not really a _costume_ I need this time, to be fair.”

“Then what?”

“The thing is… you see, I have a date.” There was a pause, and then the sad lump on the loveseat began to howl with laughter. Ceci turned to him with a scowl, Héctor feeling the heat rush to his cheekbones. “What?! What’s so funny?! Do you think I can’t get a date?!” he huffed, throwing his hat onto one of Ceci’s mannequin heads and preparing to fight.

“You?! A date!?” Gustavo managed to sputter, slapping his kneecaps. “Come _on,_ Chorizo! That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard, even from you!”

“I do have a date!” he sputtered, his whole face burning with a phantom blush.

“Oh yeah?” Gustavo wiped at his sockets, barely managing to get his giggles under control. “With who?”

“With my wife!” His jaw trembled, and then he launched into a renewed, _louder_ guffawing.

“Oh! Oho! Wi—With your—” He held onto his ribs, shaking on the seat. “Stop it! I can’t take it!” Héctor rushed at him with a growl, but Ceci caught his middle and threw him back effortlessly. In the same movement she took Gustavo’s hat and crammed it into his jaw, effectively muffling his laughter as he fought.

“Who is this woman, your wife?” She asked Héctor shrewdly, adjusting her glasses as she put herself between the two men. Héctor tried to lean around her, but Gustavo was too busy trying to unhinge his jaw and release his hat to bother with further mocking. He took a step back, arms falling limp at his sides.

“Her name is _Imelda_ ,” he snapped, mostly at Gustavo. Ceci’s eyes widened, staring intently at Héctor only to turn when Gustavo freed himself of the hat with a wrenched groan.

“Imelda?” she clarified. “Imelda… Rivera?”

“Huh?” Gustavo, finally catching up to the conversation, made a face as he looked at Héctor. “Wait a second…” His eyes narrowed, gears turning in his head before he held up his foot, boot heel emblazoned with the signature Rivera logo. “The shoemaker?”

“Yeah. What of it?” Héctor was on full defensive now, eyes darting between the two of them as he shrank back like a wounded, cornered animal. “That’s my wife.”

“No.” Gustavo let his foot fall with a thump. He laughed, though it was less heartfelt and a little nervous. “No way,” he repeated. “Her? And _you_?”

“So what?” He withered, but still tried to hold his ground. “I happened to be a good choice back in the day, you know.” Gustavo shook his head, but Ceci spoke before he could get another word in edgewise.

“I heard that she’d been married,” she said slowly, twisting a curl around her index finger as she thought. “But those brothers of hers said they were… estranged.” She looked at Héctor as if seeing him for the first time, taking in his yellowed, aged bones and ragtag appearance. The pieces fell into place behind her eyes and her mouth fell open. “…You?”

“Me,” he agreed quietly. “I left, and… I died before I could make things right.” He shot a glare towards Gustavo, as if challenging him to make the first chorizo comment. To his credit, the musician stayed silent as he listened with wide eyes. “Ernesto—no one—ever told her what happened.” He hung his head.

“I heard about that.” Ceci looked away from him, leaving him to his remorse. “I had left with my brother to visit our family in the living world, but… the dancers, they told me when they got back from the stadium. About de la Cruz, how he p—” Her tongue faltered on the word. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Héctor blurted out, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t poison me.” Gustavo winced, picking at the fabric of the loveseat. People spoke freely about how they died, but murder was still a sensitive subject. Especially when an entire orchestra had been teasing him with crude jokes about his ‘food poisoning’. If they’d known the truth they would have never cracked the first smile, but it was too late to take any of it back now. It just made them all look like big jerks.

“Anyway,” he continued, “that’s why I need your help. I have a chance to make things _right_ , Ceci. Imelda and me, well—we’re going to try again.” Even as serious as he was, he couldn’t stop from injecting his lingering joy into the words. One of his most unobtainable dreams was coming true before his eyes! He wanted to say it out loud as much as possible, to _scream_ it from the rooftop of the warehouse, but he didn’t want to risk rousing another neighborhood’s wrath.

“ _Entonces,_ you want to borrow some clothes. I don’t blame you; you look like a buffoon.”

“Actually…” He held up a finger, trying to smile. “I know I’m not really date material, but I need _these_ clothes fixed. By two o’ clock.” He glanced at the small clock she kept over her desk. It was still well before noon, so she couldn’t complain that he was putting her on a strict deadline. For something like this, surely it couldn’t take more than a few hours, could it?

“But—” Ceci stopped, looking at the holes in his pants, the stains on his bandana, the sleeve literally hanging by a thread. “No, Héctor, you need _new_ clothes. I think the orchestra has some suits in the back; go get one and I’ll tailor it.” So she did want to help him; all was not lost. _But…_ He shook his head, pointing to his faded vest.

“No dice, Ceci. It’s got to be _these_. That’s why I came here; everyone knows you’re the best seamstress in the Land of the Dead. There’s no one else I’d trust to do the best job.” The compliments didn’t go unnoticed, judging by the ghost of a smile around her mouth. Still, she shook her head uncomprehendingly.

“Why?” Her mouth twisted, and he knew that if she had a nose, it would be wrinkled in distaste. “These are… _rags_.”

“I know they are. But they’re me.” He looked down at his pelvis, at the frayed rope, the water stained money pouch, the tattered britches. “I swore to go slow this time. If I show up in a new suit and everything, that’s about as good as breaking my word. I want to know that I’m really _trying_.” He yanked nervously at the bandana. “I can’t explain it, not in the way you’d understand. But I _have_ to have these clothes, and if anyone can make them look halfway decent, I know it’s you. So please, won’t you at least try?”

“Well…” She sighed, but slowly circled him. She took her pencil, lifting up the hem to better see the hole in his back. “I’ll have to take that sleeve, but I might be able to use the fabric to patch these rips. And your pants…” she bent, studying the pinstriped pattern. “It might not match _exactly_ , you know.”

“I trust you,” he assured her. “Do your magic, Ceci.”

“Even if she _does_ manage to fix those old rags, it’ll be like putting new clothes on an old scarecrow,” Gustavo pointed out. He stood up, walking over to join them and ignoring Héctor’s scowling disapproval. “I mean, look at you, you’re—you’re a little, um—” He grabbed Héctor’s hand with his, holding them both in the light. He was no Ernesto de la Cruz, but compared to Héctor his bones seemed to glow with a brilliant inner light. Ceci nodded in agreement.

“You could stand a good polishing.” She scratched at his ulna with one finger. “It probably won’t get all the stains out, but it couldn’t hurt. Gustavo, go and get some supplies from the makeup department.”

“What?! No, I’m not polishing some dude’s bones for him!” Gustavo complained, slumping. Ceci frowned at him without a word; the expression must have meant something to him, as he changed his tune on a dime. “Okay, Ceci.”

“And take this with you.” She yanked the wig off Héctor’s head, holding it outstretched between her thumb and forefinger. “Take it to Mimi and tell her Ceci said give it the works.”

“No!” Héctor leaped for his hair, hands held out desperately. “I don’t want you to take that! I like my hair the way it is!” Ceci held him back with one hand, dropping the wig callously into Gustavo’s hands. He muffled his disgust. “Please, give it back!”  

“It _needs_ a trim, Héctor, whether you like it or not. Not to mention a good washing and a comb ran through it. I’ve never seen a wig look more like a rat’s nest.”

“Give it back, Gustavo: have a heart!”

“ _Ay_ , sorry….” He grinned pathetically, shrugging his shoulders. “Ceci’s orders….”

“C’mon, Héctor. I thought you said you trusted me.”

“I trust you! I don’t trust this ‘Mimi’!”

“Well, _I_ do. She does my hair. Isn’t it nice?” She patted her perfect curls. “Now, she won’t do anything drastic to it. Just shape it up a little, that’s all. Don’t you _want_ to look your best for your wife?”

“I mean I do, but….” He collapsed onto the loveseat as Gustavo left, practically running out of the studio as fast as his stubby legs would carry him. He rubbed his bare skull, shivering. “I could’ve cut it myself.”

“And ruined it, I’m sure. Wigs don’t grow back, you know.” She was right, and he didn’t have a photo anymore to show the wigmakers if something were to happen to his hair. He’d have to have a whole new look… just the thought made him nauseous.

Ceci pulled a large curtain across the windows, throwing the room into a dim twilight. The overhead lights popped on with a sharp buzz when she flicked the switch, and she clicked on ever one of the many lamps around her workstation before pointing them all at an empty dummy. She then went to a small closet, dragging out a fabric/metal monstrosity that unfolded to be a doctor’s privacy screen. She set it up in front of a shelf of rolled fabrics, motioning for him to step behind it.

“If you want me to do something with them, you’ll have to take your clothes off.” She shook her head with another sigh. “That woman must have put all her sense into shoes, to choose a fool like you for a husband.”

“Maybe,” he agreed quietly, following her orders to the letter. He draped his clothes over the top of the screen and she took them, leaving him stranded with the fabric. He peered around it curiously to see her put the shirt onto the dummy, staring at it from different angles before pulling scissors from her apron and severing the sleeve with one deft snip.

“Stop staring at me,” she said without looking up. She put the sleeve on the table, measuring it before measuring the hole in the back of his shirt. “Make yourself useful and pick out a cloth; I’m going to make you a new kerchief instead of trying to work the stains out of this one. There should be red scraps in one of those bottom tubs.” There was no room for argument in her voice, so he took the loss as a price to pay for getting his clothes back.

“I knew I could count on you,” he called over his shoulder, dragging one of the tubs from the bottom shelf and lifting the corner. It was full of blue fabric. He put it back and went to the next one, trying to ignore the strange feeling of his nakedness. There wasn’t anything to see, really, and yet… he was still naked. He didn’t understand how some of the skeletons could pose for those popular nude drawings, letting so many artists stare at them for hours on end. Wasn’t it… _intrusive_?

“Whatever.” He found the red box with a triumphant grin, digging through the scraps with relish. He’d never seen so many shades of red before, all gathered in one place! He remembered his first night in Mexico City, looking at all the people dressed in ways he’d never seen before, in brighter colors than he’d ever imagined. Ernesto had loved it, and while Héctor had found himself intrigued, it was a far cry from the muted, hand-dyed colors of St. Cecelia.

He suddenly remembered a dress worn by a foreign woman in the city, surprisingly detailed despite how old the memory was. A deep, rich purple, with a floral design and intricate beading resting against her bare calves. He hadn’t known what the fabric was, but looking back it had to have been some sort of silk, the way it had hung off the woman’s body.

He’d wanted to buy that dress, or a similar one; the envious need had burned through him with a fervent passion. He’d wanted Imelda to have it, to wear it so that he could see the floral pattern twirling as she danced. To feel it slide through his hands. He’d wanted it so badly. He’d even vowed to buy one if they could actually make a profit this time.  

“Ceci?”

“What now?” The red cloth was forgotten, for the moment. He stared up instead, at the bolts of cloth stretching high above him to the ceiling. He lifted his hand as far as it would go, feeling the textures of the different colors beneath his fingers.

“How much do you charge for a dress?”

“More than you can afford,” she replied, words muffled by the straight pins in her mouth. “Why?”

“I want a dress for Imelda. A nice one.”

“Define _nice_.”

“Well, I know how you feel about _store bought_.” Her answering sound of disgust was all he needed to hear. “I want to give her something like… something like I could have bought her when I was alive, if I’d had the money. Something pretty, to wear while she danced.”

“Imelda Rivera, dancing?” Ceci scoffed. “When did you die?”

“1921.” He turned back to the scrap box, looking for something woolen. He’d even settle for linen if she had it. “Definitely purple—her favorite color—and something that was popular, you know? Fashion of the time.” He tried to fill the silence, prattling on to calm his nerves. “When I struck it rich, I was going to buy her and Coco a closet each, full of dresses.”

“Coco?”

“My daughter.” He heard Ceci stop moving, but didn’t look up. “She’s still in the living world. I haven’t seen her since she was a little girl. I could still pick her up and hold her, she was so small. She was the cutest thing.”

“I’m back.” Gustavo sounded out of breath. “Where—”

“Behind the curtain.” He clunked around the edge of the screen, a bucket in each hand.

“I gave your hair to— _woah_!” He averted his eyes, scowling. “At least have the decency to cover up, Chorizo!”

“Oh, get over it.” Héctor stood, hands on his hips. “You act like you’ve never seen a naked guy before.”

“You think I enjoy it?! I don’t want to know any more about _you_ than necessary.”

“You’re making a big deal about it,” he pointed out. “What, it’s not like I still have a d—” He paused, looking over the curtain at Ceci. “Never mind.”

“Go ahead and say it; don’t mind me.” Ceci looked up from the varying skeins of purple thread she held in her hands. “I grew up in a family of men. There’s nothing I haven’t heard.”

“It’s not polite,” Héctor argued. Gustavo turned his back without another word, trying to keep him out his direct sight as he fished in the bucket. He pulled out an orange extension cord and began to unravel the tangles, grumbling under his breath. Héctor looked warily at the tools in the bucket, scratching his chin. He knew that there were all sorts of bone polishing _stuff_ out there, but even if he’d been able to afford it he had no clue how it worked. Soap and water had been Shantytown’s preferred cleaning method, and it had done him well until his bones began yellowing.

One bucket was half full of clean, warm water, steam rising from the sloshing liquid. The other held jars, bottles, and tools he’d never seen before. Gustavo cursed openly at the cord, knotting it further as he yanked on the ends. Héctor picked up one of the tools, a heavy machine with a cloth pad and several metal parts; it looked like an instrument of torture, rather than a cleaning device.

“Fine, _be_ that way!” The man snarled, giving the cord one last tug before jamming it in the socket. “See if I care!”

“Uh, what is this?” Gustavo looked up at him. He held up the machine by the rubber handle, looking more and more nervously at it.

“You never done this before?” Gustavo asked in reply, one hand on his hips and nudity forgotten for the moment. Héctor shook his head and he sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s a buffer.” He took it from him, pressing a switch on the side. “Battery powered,” he added, raising his voice to speak over the buzzing whir of the cloth pad. He flicked it back off, turning and missing the look of abject horror on Héctor’s face. “Now, where’s that damn burnisher? I know I got one from the closet…. Here.” He stopped his search, tossing a jar in Héctor’s direction. “Start putting this on your head.”

“What…” He turned the jar over in his hands, reading the old-fashioned label glued to the front. “Medium Grain Bone Polishing Prophylactic Paste,” he stammered, squinting at the large words. “Sandalwood. What is this?”

“It’s like the stuff dentists use on your teeth in the real world.” Gustavo had the burnisher, which turned out to be an even _larger_ machine. Héctor paled, shrinking away from it instinctively. There was no way that thing was getting anywhere near him! But he had no clothing and nowhere to go…. He fought with the outlet, trying to fit the extension cord upside down. “It’s good for getting stains off your bones. And it smells good, too. Smell it.”

Héctor opened the jar, sniffing cautiously. He blinked, the light fragrance filling his nasal cavities. Definitely sandalwood, along with something mossy, earthy. And… oranges?

“Good, right?” Gustavo leaned over and took an appreciative sniff. “The ladies _love_ it, they can’t get enough. You’ll thank me later,” he added, winking. Héctor stared at him, vaguely aware that Gustavo was making some lewd comment about his wife, but unsure as to exactly _how_. He looked back at the jar with a shrug; if Imelda really wanted him to smell like the forest after a rain, he’d do it without complaint.

Almost without complaint.

“Ugh! It’s gritty!” He rubbed his fingers, a shiver running down his spine.

“It’s supposed to be!” He saw him hesitating and waved him on impatiently. “C’mon, smear it on. Just a thin layer.” Héctor looked to Ceci, but she had already tuned them out. He gingerly dipped his fingers back into the paste, hating the feeling of the hard grit. He used both hands to spread it over his face like soap, over his cranium and behind his cheekbones. It was thick and goopy, hard to spread and cold to the touch. He didn’t like it at all, and it was too easy to ignore the need to rub it in like some kind of lotion. He didn’t want to touch that more than he had to. 

“Is this right?” he asked. Gustavo looked at him, tilting his head.

“Get a little more under your jaw, right on the inside. There—that’s right. That should be good enough to start with.” He slapped on a pair of welder’s goggles, adjusting them over his thick sideburns before picking up the burnisher. “You might want to take your eyes out, since this is your first time.”

“ _What_?! No, my eyes are staying where they are!”

“Suit yourself.” Gustavo shrugged, adjusting his grip on the instrument.

“W-w-wait! What are _those_ for, anyway?” He pointed to the goggles.

“I don’t know what’s going to come flying off you, bro. Eye protection is important.” He tilted his head. “You really _haven’t_ done this before, huh?”

“No!”

“Well, stop looking at me like that.” Gustavo sniffed before switching on the burnisher. It roared to life, the lights flickering as it sucked electricity out of the old building. “It won’t hurt a bit!” he shouted, grinning devilishly as he advanced on the frozen, cowering man. Héctor could do nothing but press himself against the shelves, eyes scrunched shut and hands held up defensively, bones trembling.

_Oh! O-oh? Ohhh…._

It was buzzy, and loud, and… felt pretty darn good. He relaxed slowly, the rubber disc whirring against his skull and down the sides of his face. He could see now why Gustavo had recommended taking out his eyes despite the smothering panic of being sightless; the burnisher pressed against them as it polished his sockets, and they slipped so far back into his skull that he was afraid they’d fall right through his jawbone.

“Okay, open your eyes.” The grinding whir choked back to a dull hum, and he opened them to see Gustavo take off one side of the goggles and peer at his skull. “That looks better already. Let me do the back, and then we’ll wash it off and see.”

“Alright.” He turned, facing the wall as the whirring shuddered to life again. His teeth rattled as Gustavo worked on the back of the skull, all the way down to his first vertebrae and catching the underside of his jaw. He held his hands over his eyes, worried that they might pop out from the vibrations. _Good grief… is this what they do in those fancy spas they advertise on the sides of the trolleys?_ It felt good, but not good enough to pay someone to do every few months!

“Okay,” Gustavo said again. He dragged the water bucket over, pulling out a soft cloth and handing it to him. “Wipe the rest of that gunk off and let’s see if it’s worth doing the rest of you.” Héctor obeyed, dipping the cloth in the warm water and rubbing it over his face. It felt good enough that he melted where he sat, a murmur of contentment deep in his throat. Even without skin, nothing beat a good hot cloth on the face. “Well, hurry it up!” He took the cloth off just to glare at him, running it over his cranium before swirling it in the water. It immediately grew cloudy from the remaining paste on his head, but he was shocked to see the dull stain to the once-clear liquid. _Was I really all that dirty? Or… is that the stains coming off my bones?_ There was no mirror to see himself in, so he stood to look over the divider.

Ceci was putting the finishing touches on his shirt—a vest, now. She’d hemmed up the ragged edges, and he could see the faint gleam of new buttons on the front. Emotion swelled inside him at the sight; she’d done so well! It looked like something out of a second-hand shop, rather than a sad little rag that was supposed to pass for clothing.

“Hey, Ceci!” he called, getting her attention. “How do I look?” She took one look at him and her eyes went wide, needle falling from her hand and dangling in midair from the vest. _That bad?!_

“I never… I never knew they were so bright,” she managed to say. _Huh?_ A moment later, it hit him that she meant his markings. He put his fingers to his cheeks, feeling over the little divots where the dots and colors were. He turned to Gustavo, who nodded to him before picking up the jar.

“Here, sit down so I can get your spine.” He began to slather the paste down each vertebra, making sure to get the back of his ribcage as well. Héctor helped him, rubbing the polish over his arms and sternum before sitting straight up, a shiver running up to his skull.

“Hey! Careful, that’s sensitive back there!” He leaned away, frowning over his shoulder.

“Sorry, geez.” Gustavo wiped his brow on the back of his hand, using Héctor’s shoulders as a makeshift hand towel for the leftover before picking up the burnisher once more. “Do me a favor and hold still; I don’t want to go chasing after your vertebrae every time I hit a ‘sensitive spot’.” He slapped the goggles over his eyes again, firing up the machine.

Héctor tried to obey, sitting ramrod straight as the rubber ran in-between and over his spinal column. It was better if he kept his mind off of it, tapping out new rhythms with his toes or fiddling with his thumbs as Gustavo worked. He looked down when it was time for his front ribs, watching in awe as he worked. Gustavo ran the polisher over his ribs in a certain way, turning proper angles and sliding it easily over the bone. The movements, practiced in their own way, jogged his memory. Where had he seen that before? The machine ran its way up his sternum in short strokes, smoothing out at the end.

 _Carpenter._ Héctor jerked in surprise, earning him another frown. That was the way carpenters sanded down wood in the shops. He could see it in his mind’s eye; there hadn’t been electricity when he was a boy, but he’d seen handheld electric sanders in the Land of the Dead. He loved watching how they smoothed the rough wood in ways that would have taken hours by hand. _How does Gustavo know…._ He trailed off thoughtfully, wondering if he’d always been a violinist. Had he grown up in a carpenter’s family, or was that the trade he’d chosen? Had he learned it in school, perhaps?  

He had little time to think about that, his attention being drawn to the way his bones were lightening. They weren’t snowy white by any means, but as the polisher moved up and down his arms he could see the stains being buffed away, leaving a streaky gleam behind. Gustavo stopped and he picked up the cloth from the water without being prompted, excitedly scrubbing at his ribs. He admired them in the overhead lights, grinning as he took in their new, clean state. They could pass for any old bones now, not just someone who had recently been on the path to their Final Death.

“ _Mira_! I can almost see my reflection!” he laughed, running his thumb along his clavicle. He studied the backs of his hands; the porous bones had been healing, and now they looked even better after the shine. The duct tape on his arm was fraying from the friction, and he had to stop Gustavo from ripping it off. “Oh, hey—no. I want to keep that.”

“It’s _tape_.” Gustavo reached for it again. “It’s probably healed by now, anyway.”

“No, this is… a good friend did this for me.” He could still remember Chich’s angry face as he complained about the loss of his minifridge, all the while wrapping Héctor’s arms where the bone was cleanly snapped. “He’s gone now and—well, I just want to remember him this way.” Gustavo rolled his eyes, but nodded.

“Fine. Here, then: Ceci, you got any lacquer?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded closer, and they could hear her digging in her desk drawers. “Here.” She rounded the corner unexpectedly; Héctor leapt to his feet with a shout, covering himself as best he could with his boney arms.

“ _Ceci_!” he yelped, mortified. She let out a muffled breath, shaking her head as she slapped the tiny jar of lacquer into Gustavo’s hands. She pointed to Héctor, holding up a roll of measuring tape.

“Stand up; I have to measure your legs.”

“Right now?!”

“Yes, right now.” She knelt, briskly measuring the length of his tibias with a frown. She muttered to herself, turning and heading back around the divider without another word. Gustavo dipped the tiny lacquer brush into the liquid, shaking the jar before applying a thin layer to the duct tape. He made the frayed edges lie flat against the rest of the tape, wrapping it up and adding a second coat to smooth it all out.

“There,” he said in satisfaction, screwing the cap back on the jar. “Now it’ll weather better.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Just do.” Gustavo shrugged. “I’m, uh—I’m gonna let you do the rest of _that_ yourself.” He pointed to Héctor’s lower half. “I’m not getting that close to you.” He fell into a sudden fit of coughing, waving the rest of his words away as he picked up another jar. “I’ll be mixing up the buffer junk.”

* * *

“Well, what do you think?” Ceci had brought out a floor mirror; he felt utterly vain as he stared at his reflection. He hadn’t looked this good since… well, since he died! She stood alone at the side of the mirror, Gustavo having taken the first real chance to leave and booking it as far away from the room as he could.  He’d already had to endure Héctor’s helpless laughter; that buffer had _tickled_ , even if it was worth the added shine to his bones.

His hair had been returned in grand shape. It was soft and fluffy, and it smelled kind of like fruit. Plus the split ends had been trimmed and it sat neatly on his skull, combed and neat and presentable. Along with the brighter markings and the glint of his gold filling, he looked _muy guapo_.

_Imelda’s sure to fall for me now!_

 His hat was as ragged as ever, but his repurposed vest was very nice. Unless he squinted very hard, he couldn’t see the patch at all. Ceci’s stiches were small, and she had used the thread nearest to the original color to skillfully match up the extra fabric. He’d let her keep the shreds of purple leftover for one of her scrap boxes.

His pants were looking sharp too; as she had warned, the new fabric in the patches and the leg wasn’t _exactly_ the same, but unless he looked hard he could ignore it. She’d taken the effort of matching up the pinstripes down to the stitching, and had hemmed the edges to sit neatly above his ankles. She’d even cuffed them so well that no one would even pay attention to the fact that the fabric was one shade off. And the fabric of his kerchief had been whip-stitched around the edges, looking crisp and new.

“Am I—do I look okay?” he asked, suddenly nervous. The clock showed a quarter to one: just enough time to get across town. “I mean…”

“I think you’ll pass inspection,” Ceci quipped, crossing her arms. “You look like a new man,” she added reassuringly, when he still hesitated. “Now, you better go, or you’ll be late. I’d hate for Imelda to think that you stood her up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword:  
>  “Let me polish your pelvis, bro; no homo, bro.”
> 
> I based the bone polishing stuff off of actual bone polishing: aka dentistry! I had to watch lots of slightly gross videos about proper polishing techniques, and I know more about it than I ever wanted to, or ever will want to. At least I can make proper muffled conversation the next time I’m getting my teeth cleaned, right? 
> 
> Sorry if this chapter seems to drag on. I just wanted to have an excuse to write Ceci helping Héctor by patching up his clothes. The movie makes it seem like she helps him, even when she knows he’s going to make things hard for her in the end. After all, she gave him her dress—I wish we could have seen more of her!
> 
> Anyway the title of the chapter is a reference to one of my favorite Spongebob scenes.


	13. The Second-First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor and Imelda finally have their date.   
> How does it go?   
> Read, and you'll know.

_What am I **doing**!? _

Héctor didn’t have fingernails anymore, so he settled with gnawing his thumb as he paced the alley. He’d gotten as far as the thoroughfare before the reality of what he was about to do set in and blindsided him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this terrible before; thick, rolling nausea churning in his vacant guts, the phantom sting of bile in his lower neck. Stage fright had nothing on this kind of terror.

Could a skeleton puke its guts out? He’d stopped in the alley, thinking for a moment that he was about to answer his own question. The feeling had passed when he rested his cheeks against the cool stone walls, but now he was stranded between the thoroughfare and one of the many side streets winding up the steep hill towards the Rivera’s neighborhood.

He couldn’t bring himself to run his hands through his hair—it was neat for _once,_ after all, and combs were hard to come by when you lived on the streets—so each phalange was worried between his teeth until the bones began to protest with a mild ache. He walked on trembling legs, wobbling along the cobblestones like a newborn fawn as nerves worked through him from head to foot.

_I can’t do this!_ He ran both hands over his face, as if to wipe away the ghostly stickiness of anxious sweat. _This is insane._ He slumped against the side of the alley, staring up at the patch of blue sky between the buildings. _What am I supposed to do, just walk right in and sweep her off her feet? ¡Sí, cómo no!_

It had to have been some sort of mind trick. If he was to believe his own memory, Imelda not only came to him in the middle of the night, but _also_ kissed him _and_ agreed to a date? With him half-drunk at that? As if! He had a better chance of waking back up in the living world, having dreamt the last century in a stupor! Imelda would never—she wouldn’t—not with him….

Sure, Toño had seen him talking with a woman. But the bartender had admitted to not knowing who she was, or even seeing her face to be able to describe her. He only had his own recollection of the night’s events to go off of. What if he’d just imagined the whole scenario? Wishful thinking had a way of making dreams reality, but it helped when he was already inebriated enough to believe his own tall tales.

And even if she had been there, surely by now she’d changed her mind! She had to have realized what a bad, _bad_ idea this was from the get-go. Imelda was a smart, gorgeous, amazing woman; she knew it, he knew it, the world knew it. She could do so much better than him. He had even less to offer her now than he had the first time he dared to show interest. At least back then, he’d had a house and the barebone remnants of his family’s admittedly meager inheritance. He’d had _something_. And now he was doing good with the clothes on his back.

_She can’t want me. Heck, **I** don’t even want me. _

Yes, he just imagined them talking. That much was decided. It was the whirlwind fantasy of a fool, and he was certainly the biggest fool in the Land of the Dead. Imelda, talking to him and patiently hearing him out? Imelda _kissing_ him, ignoring the fact that he was covered in grime and unfit to sit in her presence? _¡Qué tonto eres, Héctor!_ A fool in a fool’s paradise….

His heart ached, and he swallowed against the pain. He couldn’t be with her. He couldn’t forget her. He’d already lived without her for so long! He’d been told his entire life that he was too hopeful, too excited about things that hadn’t been set in stone. This pain was so distressingly familiar; he agreed with them, now. If it hadn’t been for Coco, the long-awaited reunion that drew nearer and nearer—if it weren’t for his daughter, he’d have probably let himself go to the Final Death without a fight. Sober and tired, staring it in the face like a man. Like Chich.

He knew what would happen. She’d show up and yell at him, tearing off her shoe and demanding to know what it would take to make him leave her alone forever. Or worse, she’d laugh at him, laugh at his pathetic attempts to make himself presentable, and then slam the door in his face. He wouldn’t be able to bear it. It would break him entirely.

_Well,_ _Héctor_. He rubbed his cheekbones, jaw working silently. No one noticed him, alone in the alley and clearly at war with himself. _You’ve made a proper mess of things again. You went and wasted everyone’s time._ Toño, Gustavo, Ceci—they’d all, in their own way, encouraged him to chase this idea that was clearly a fantasy. He didn’t deserve the company of good people like that. He didn’t even deserve to call them his friends.

_This was a stupid plan from the beginning_. He slid his hat off his head, staring down at the warped, frayed rim. That hat was the closest thing to his real self that he had; no matter how nicely he tried to clean it up, it was always old and ratty. It needed to be thrown out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was his favorite hat, one of the few things he’d been able to cling to for his entire stay in the Land of the Dead. A prized possession. It said a lot, that _that_ was the closest thing he had to an heirloom.

No one from the Rivera family knew he was on his way. He could still save face. He turned around, swallowing the thick lump in his throat and composing himself. He could just go back to Shantytown right now and take his rightful place in front of Chicharron’s empty bungalow. He could waste away the hours, waiting for Coco to cross over. And then… well, he’d take life one day at the time.

_If you stand her up, it’s over._ He paused, half-turning to see who it was that spoke so confidently. He was certain he hadn’t said anything aloud, but— he was alone in the alley. Turning fully, he looked around to see if anyone could have shouted from the roof. There was a single window, but it was boarded from the inside and covered in a fine layer of dust. In it, he saw… himself.

The reflection was warped by the old windowpanes, blurred further by dust and the dim lighting of the alley. The reflection seemed different than the one he’d stared at in Ceci’s lovely mirror. He blinked, squinted, and took a step back in shock. It was him… really _him_. Big nose, bigger ears, stern frown on a real flesh and blood mouth. _H-how—what—_ He rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly, and looked at his own bony metacarpals. He was still a skeleton, that much was certain, but he really could almost see his living form, transposed over his skull, staring back at him from the window in disappointment. 

_Imelda is waiting for you_. The reflection’s mouth didn’t move, of course—his didn’t either. But the voice he heard was filled with an inner strength he hadn’t felt in decades. He’d been so tired for so long… he’d almost forgotten what he’d once had. It seemed a distant memory, cauterized and very separate from the man he was now.

_She’s not_. He felt insane, arguing with himself. He’d heard someone say once that crazy people didn’t know they were crazy at all. He certainly felt crazy—did that mean he was sane? Was it even possible to feel saneness when talking to himself? _It wasn’t real._

_If you don’t show up again, you’re going to hurt her._ This made him pause. He reflected on the statement, staring at his bandana. In the window, he could have mistaken it for an elegant tie. _Imelda is waiting for you_ , the voice in his mind repeated, even more firmly. _Don’t let her down._

He couldn’t let her down. He’d done it so many years now….

_Maybe I can stand being laughed at, if it means she’s laughing_. He closed his eyes, seeing her in his memory. The woman she’d been, the skeleton she was, both were layered over each other in his mind until they were inseparable. She was _Imelda_ , no matter what form she took. It was the soul inside her that he loved, not her outward appearance—though, to be fair, she’d always been a beauty. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said she still looked good.

There was a very, very, _very_ slim off chance that he hadn’t made it up. That she’d actually come to him, talked to him, kissed him before agreeing that they’d give things a second shot. The thought of her waiting for him, trusting him to come back to her like he promised…. And then for that waiting to be all for nothing, for him to let his own fear cripple him, to see only empty streets and emptier promises—

“No.” He wouldn’t let that happen to her. Not again. She deserved better than that. She deserved a man who could keep his word, even at the expense of being laughed out of the neighborhood. The thought of his heart being crushed was god-awful, unbearable agony; the thought of doing anything to _hers_ transcended the meaning of the word pain. He would never forgive himself if he hurt her again.

_That settles it then, doesn’t it?_ He jammed his hat back onto his head, squashing his hair flat against his face. His hands balled to fists at his sides as he stared at his reflection in the warped window. Imelda could shout herself hoarse. She could yell and scream and cry. She could order her _alebrije_ to eat him alive and then spit him up like a bony hairball. But he would be there for all of it. She wouldn’t be doing any of it because he hadn’t shown up.

He took a deep breath, gathering what courage he had. There was still time. No matter what happened… he could never look back and say he didn’t give it his best efforts.

_I’ve been chasing impossible dreams for a hundred years now. It won’t hurt to chase one more._

* * *

_Ten minutes._

Imelda stood in the dining area, fussing with her reflection in the tarnished silver mirror nailed to the side of the staircase. She adjusted the puffed sleeves of her dress nervously; she’d had to stop herself every five minutes from running upstairs and changing into her favorite purple wool, or at the very least something a little less assuming.

The dress was gray linen, neatly pressed with white piping at the sleeves and a starched white collar that sat high on her neck, gold buttons gleaming. It was her second-best dress, kept neat and tidy for special occasions. Was this a special enough occasion? She’d thought so, but the more she stared at herself in the mirror the more she thought that she might be overdressed. On the other hand, would it be better to be _underdressed_? She shuddered at the mere thought.

Her family had said nothing when they saw her come down for breakfast; it was Sunday, after all, and Sunday best was worn even if no one had plans of going out. Imelda insisted that they should look proper at least one day a week: it didn’t hurt the twins to button their shirts to the top, for Julio to take off his hat and wear something besides flannel, and for the girls to leave the aprons downstairs and put on a _slip_ , for goodness’s sake.

If nothing else, it gave the clothes a proper airing. 

She resisted the urge to run her fingers over the white scallops of her collar; it felt as if it were choking her, though it was no tighter than the purple necklace she wore when she wanted to feel fancy and dressed up. It was nerves, plain and simple. She could still hardly believe that she’d let a man talk her into her first date in nearly a century. Of course, it wasn’t just _any_ man, after all; she had to admit that much.

Still, it sounded so… nonsensical! She, dating? At her age? That was ridiculous, uncalled for, absolutely wild. Sure, other skeletons—sometimes a lot older than her—dated all the time. But they weren’t her. She was an old woman, a great-great-grandmother at that! And sure, he _was_ technically the great-great-grandfather to all those children, but—still!

Even if she did think she was still young enough to go out, what was it that people did on dates now? In her youth, the idea of a date was really being out in the back garden, her mamá watching like a hawk through the window and swooping whenever they were less than an arm’s length away. There was more than a hint of truth to those old love ballads crooned in bars late at night.

Their lives had been so rigid that she’d had to make excuses to meet Héctor on the sly, pretending to be with Lucía or going on some long-winded errand that took even longer once she reached the plaza where he was playing. There was a reason they’d married after only a year of courting.

That had been so long ago! Were they still supposed to do that sort of thing, even though they were married? Were Julio and Rosita to take the place of her parents? No: Julio and Victoria, for Rosita would probably encourage them to be as close as possible.

Or would he try some new, modern spin on it? She had tormented herself all morning on wondering where, if anywhere, he might take her. Dancing? She hoped not; it was too soon for that. A restaurant? Did he even have money? If he did, he ought to have been spending it on new clothes rather than a frivolous dinner. And if there were candles involved that had nothing to do with the lighting… a waste! Who thought candles made for a romantic mood? People ate by candlelight when they had nothing else, that’s all!

“Oh, Mamá Imelda?” She jumped, turning quickly from the mirror with her hands behind her back.

“ _Es nada_.” Rosita blinked at her, head tilting quizzically. “W-what is it?”

“I was only going to ask if that was a new ribbon.” She pointed to the color weaved into Imelda’s braid. Imelda reached up to touch it; it _was_ new, a soft, velvet sable that went well with her dress. She’d been saving it to wear on her birthday, but this had seemed enough of an occasion. 

“I— _sí_ , it is.” She patted her hair absently, glancing back to make sure that any flyaway hairs were still tucked neatly into the roll. “Do you like it?” she asked, voice jumping an octave in her anxiousness. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I thought it was pretty enough to buy, even if I have too many already.”

“Oh, yes.” Rosita stepped behind her and peered in the mirror over her shoulder. “I like it very much. And there’s no such thing as too many ribbons!” she added brightly.

“Yes, there is.” Imelda frowned; Rosita was always dressed up in flowers and bright colors from head to toe. Even in the living world, anyone could see her coming from miles away. There was no reason to it; ribbons and finery were nothing compared to a roof and food. She’d never had much as a young woman and had still been able to make herself up with the bare basics. She hadn’t needed a thousand silken ribbons in every shade, or a different colored shawl for each day of the week.

 “Oh! And your lipstick is different, too! I hadn’t noticed.” Rosita peered intently at the neutral taupe color. “Are you trying something new?”

“I—no, I used to wear this. Don’t you remember?” It had been a neater, more conservative style she’d adopted in her later years. The rich, royal purples were fine, but sometimes a woman needed something that was more… muted. And the color seemed to highlight the two streaks of gray in her hair, especially now that she didn’t have skin to offset it. _One for each of your tíos,_ she used to joke to Coco, when the twins were especially bothersome. Though, if she really thought about it… _one for her, one for him._

“I guess I don’t.” Rosita paused, and then yanked Imelda into a bone-crushing embrace. She’d always had a surprising amount of strength despite her plump exterior, and it had carried over into the afterlife without a hitch. “I think you’re beautiful, no matter what you wear,” she assured her, seemingly trying her best to crush Imelda’s ribcage between her arms.

“¡ _Ay_!” Imelda managed to gasp, pushing her way out of the affectionate bear hug. She grimaced at her wrinkled front, smoothing the linen as best she could with both hands. “Don’t do that!”

“Why?” Rosita laughed, ever cheerful. “Are you expecting someone?” she teased, shoulders shaking as she tittered. Imelda gaped at her, unsure of even what to say. It was _true_ , but—She was saved from responding by a knock at the door. Rosita made a little sound of surprise, her brow furrowing. “Are you?” she asked again, this time both puzzled and entirely serious.

“I—well—” Panic blossomed behind her ribcage, centered over where her heart once lay. She checked the mirror again, immediately second-guessing everything about her appearance. _What if he doesn’t like gray?_ That was the silliest of the questions bouncing around her mind, quickly followed by other, equally silly thoughts.

_Should I go upstairs and change? What if he’s in a suit and I’m just—Imelda, listen to yourself; where would he even get a suit? What if he thinks I’m too plain? Do I look too much like an old woman? Would he even care? Have his tastes changed that much since we were—_

“I’ll get it!” Victoria called, walking out of the parlor with a novel in her hand. Imelda almost called after her, hand stuck in midair as Rosita continued to stare at her questioningly.

She hadn’t told any of them about meeting Héctor at the plaza; to do so would have been to explain why she was at the plaza in the middle of the night in the first place. She’d been trying not to think about what they’d say, what they’d do _,_ when they saw him at the door. Oh, he’d come; she had no doubts about that. Alright, maybe _one_ little doubt. There was a niggling little thought in the back of her mind that he’d sing a different tune once he sobered up, but surely he wouldn’t dare to stand her up without a single explanation—

 “Who is it?” Oscar stopped halfway down the stairs, leaning his long frame over to peer through the archway into the workshop. Felipe was at his heels, steadying his brother by the shoulders as he looked at the women.

“Were you expecting customers?” he asked in genuine confusion, looking at her dress.

“On a Sunday?” Oscar laughed. “Impossible.”

“Well, you never know—”

“We weren’t expecting anyone—”

“Maybe it’s family?” Julio asked, coming to stand at the parlor door. The twins nodded at him.

“Could be Tío Alejandro—”

“You’d think he’d call if he were in the neighborhood—”

“Prima Inez?”

“I hope not.”

Oh, how wrong, and yet how _right_ they were! Her breath caught in her throat as Victoria opened the door, and she shut her eyes against her better judgement. _What am I doing?! I can’t do this; I can’t go through with it!_ Her hand rose to her chest, trembling against her sternum. What would they say? Would they laugh at her? Her brothers might; they always thought it was funny when—

“H-Héctor?!” There was a pause, a terse silence that seemed as if the entire family held its breath. “Is that— _you_?” _Well, who else would you mistake for him?!_ Imelda thought, her eyes glued shut from sheer anxiety.

“ _Hola,_ Victoria. Uhm… may I come in?” He sounded wary. She heard the shuffle of Victoria’s skirts, and then the sound of his bare feet on the wooden floor of the workroom. Rosita inhaled sharply in her ear.

“Ooh, Papá Héctor!” she whispered, voice brimming with glee. “¡ _Qué guapo_!”

_I knew it, I knew I was underdressed, I knew I should have changed, I—_

Imelda forced her eyes open, ready to face the music. What she saw floored her; if her bones hadn’t been tensed with nerves, she might have lost her jaw. Rosita’s mouth was hanging open, the twins nearly tumbling over the banister as they arched their necks to see what the others saw. Even Julio was staring in surprise, eyes wide over his thick mustache.

Héctor was… clean.

Well, he was certainly _more_ than that, but it alone made him look much better. It was easy to see why Victoria had done a double-take, needing a moment to put the face and the voice together. They’d never seen him as anything more than a mostly-Forgotten Shantytown slumper, with his ragged clothing and wild looks. Now he was elegant, or at least seemed to be better put together.

His bones weren’t white by any means, but neither were they covered with yellow, dusty streaks. Somehow, somewhere, someone had polished him up until the majority of his stains were gone and his body was now the pearled off-white that matched many of the skeletons walking the streets. Even his teeth were clean, the gold filling glinting in the afternoon light as he grinned nervously, worrying the brim of his hat.

The real color shone through his facial markings. They’d already been bright to the point of absurdity, but now they seemed to dance with the loud colors of a fiesta. The green swirls were verdant, the swooping yellows sunny, the purples warm and regal—her favorite shade of purple, she realized with a start. They covered his bones like a mask, drawing attention to his prominent cheekbones and bright eyes. It was so… _him_. It was almost laughable.

She also noticed that someone had taken a comb to that mop he dared to call a wig. Scissors too, by the looks of things. The split ends were cut and lay demurely against his skull, tamed into submission by an expert hand. It looked washed, too; instead of sticking out at stiff, odd angles it lay in fluffy layers, parted neatly at the side with the swooping bangs barely covering his forehead markings. Her fingers itched to feel them, to feel if it was as soft as she could remember it being so many years ago; she laced them behind her back, shoving the impulse away to think over later.

And his _clothing_. He wore the same outfit—no, he’d gotten new clothes— _no_ , he’d _patched_ his old ones! The shirt had been converted into a vest, the lapels tucked neatly at the sides and, from the looks of it, re-hemmed along the arms and sides. He was facing her, but she would have bet money that the hole in the back was gone, too. He still wore that ridiculous rope, and the overstretched suspenders, but his pants were the same length now. While she could tell there was _some_ difference in the bottom pattern of his pinstripes, it was hardly noticeable. He even had a new bandana, a crisp, bright color against his clean ribcage.

All but his feet; his poor, bare feet. _Ah, I was supposed to be doing something about that, wasn’t I_? she thought with a wince. She’d been so angry at him that she’d thrown the leather out—or tried to. She hadn’t been able to go through with it, something deep inside her stopping her from releasing the sad little bundle of cut leather into the rubbish bin. She’d ended up shoving it to the back the cabinet where, hopefully, no one would ever see it. It hadn’t been disturbed, as far as she knew. _I could still fix that._

 He looked beyond presentable. No, more than that: he looked familiar. For the first time, she could link the two in her mind—the man he was, the man he used to be. Their eyes met, his widening slightly, and she wondered what he saw. Her, standing in the dining area, framed by the arch? Maybe he was just watching her brothers fall over each other on the stairs, or maybe Rosita was doing something behind her. Surely she didn’t deserve such a poignant stare… did she?

_Does he think I look nice?_

She wanted to say that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t care what he thought of her. But that was a lie. Even old women liked to think they were beautiful. Even her mother, on her deathbed, had asked Imelda to brush out her hair and wash her face. _So that the priest won’t think I’m unkempt, when he reads me my last rites._ Even the dead want to be beautiful. Hadn’t she asked to be buried in her best dress, with her favorite choker at her throat and her gold—real gold, not fake—earrings?

Héctor took a quick breath and swallowed, trying and failing to look at ease. Her granddaughter looked between them quickly, the gears turning behind her eyes. She clung to the door, glasses slipping from her face as she watched the two of them.

“W—” Victoria stopped herself, reflected, and tried again. “Why are you here?” Héctor didn’t answer; his eyes were still locked on the dining room—on her? His eyes kept sliding from her polished boots up to the sable ribbon, staring as if he’d never seen anything quite like it before in his life. He couldn’t _physically_ do it, but she had the sneaking suspicion that he just might be blushing. The mere thought sent a wave of heat over her own face and she looked down at hint of white underskirt visible beneath the hemline of gray cloth.

“He’s here for me.” The words escaped her without warning. _Be brave._ She gulped and lifted her chin, holding her head high even as her cheekbones burned. She ignored the urge to dust off the front of the dress, her arms stiff at her sides as she walked into the workroom. She kept her gaze on him, ignoring the eyes of her family burning into her back. Victoria backed away, aghast, and looked over Imelda’s shoulder at the rest.

“I-Imelda.” It was amazing how closely he still managed to resemble their first date in the living world. Desperately hopeful, patched and penniless, an actual effort to appear neat and tidy for once. He opened his mouth, eyes searching around the room as he tried to think of something to say. He closed it, opened it again, and managed a painful smile. “H-Hi.”

“Héctor.” She realized that she also had nothing to say, that didn’t sound entirely pointless. “You—uh—” She looked away, trying to tuck hair behind her ear; it was a nervous habit, and she always forgot that she didn’t actually have ears anymore to hold the hair. “You fixed your—you look…” She trailed off, mentally beating herself. Could she not even compliment him without stammering like a child? 

“Heh…” He did a fidgety, jumpy little bounce on his heels. “A-Are you ready to go on our….” He looked at Victoria, smile faltering. “Outing?” _Just call it what it is!_ It didn’t matter; Victoria was completely lost, leaning against the door with her mouth agape. She couldn’t blame her; as far as any of them knew, she had cursed him and banished him from the home. Now she was standing with him in the very place she said she’d never wanted to see him again. _What must they think of me?_

“Yes.” Why did she feel so hot? Maybe linen hadn’t been the best idea after all.

“Wait, wait.” The twins descended the stairs in a pounding flurry; when she turned back, they were stuck side by side in the arch, Rosita and Julio squashed against the edges as they all tried to run into the room at the same time. Oscar and Felipe shared a quick glance, a full conversation passing between their frowns before they turned back to Imelda.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” She was surprised at her own snappish retort. It sounded more like a teenage answer than her own.

“With him?” Felipe asked.

“Who else?”

“But—when will you be back?” Julio grunted, muffled by the pressure of his jaw against the archway.

“Before dark.” She glanced firmly back at Héctor. It was better to establish that sort of boundary now. One afternoon, back before dark. A good first date timeframe. They could get used to each other and be back home before anything happened. No exceptions. He nodded eagerly, willing to accept any condition she threw at him.

“Where are you going?” Oscar demanded again. “ _Where_?” he enunciated, when she just stared at him blankly.

“ _No sé_.” She shrugged easily, portraying a nonchalance she didn’t really feel. “Wherever we please, I would think.” Rosita beamed, stars dancing in her eyes. Victoria just looked astounded. “Shall we?” She turned back to Héctor. He nodded again, holding out his arm to her. She looked down at it, free of the stringy sleeve he’d worn for so long.

She’d refused his help so many times before. Mostly because it was—well, Héctor—but also because she’d not wanted him to touch her. It was strange; she couldn’t really explain it, not even to herself. But she hadn’t wanted to feel the hand she’d successfully avoided for so long. She hadn’t wanted his warmth, his kindness, after being deserted by the same hands that had let her go that night. That had reached for the guitar instead of his wife.

She tried to keep it so that _she_ touched _him_ , not the other way around. She clung to him after singing onstage. She grabbed his hand as he gave a dying man’s blessing. But that wasn’t fair, not to him. She couldn’t leave him hanging forever, just because he’d done it in their youth. If they were going to try again, then there should be no taboo on touching, so long as it was consensual. She’d _kissed_ him only hours before, after all. She’d held his face in her hands and gave him her benediction, a promise to try and work out their differences before it tore them apart forever.

_It’s okay. I can do this._ She looked back up to his clean, happy face beneath the neatly parted bangs. He was clearly holding himself back for her sake, but she could see the joy, the slight adoration, the… relief?

_I want to fall in love with you again._ That’s what he’d said.

_I want that, too._

“Let’s go, Héctor.” She squared her shoulders, nose in the air as she took his arm and let him draw her to his side.

“Right.” She turned for once last glance at her family, still staring as though the two of them had swapped skulls. She knew for a fact that the moment the door was closed behind them, there would be plenty of talk. She’d probably come home to a thousand questions. And the twins—she’d seen the look in their eyes. She knew that they liked Héctor just fine, but they’d always been so darn protective of her! They’d have a few thoughts of their own, though she couldn’t say whether or not they’d be bold enough to say them to her face. _Oh, well. I’ll deal with all that when I get back._

“I’ll be home in a few hours.” She nodded to them, adjusted her grip on his arm, and let him lead her out the door.

* * *

Imelda didn’t like trolleys.

Trolleys were, in her mind, about the same as trains. _Trains_ —accursed things—were what had brought her brothers to the Land of the Dead prematurely. To ‘protect her delicate senses’ the doctors in the Department of Family Reunions had spared her the grisly details of the twins’ demise, and the twins themselves never breathed a word beyond occasionally referencing _the accident_. Nothing good came of trains, in her limited experience. Therefore, the same could be said of a trolley.

The trolley system was the main method of transportation in the Land of the Dead, aside from hoofing it. They were everywhere, winding up and the down the spirals of the city and often crowded with those who didn’t want to walk several miles uphill just to get to their house at the end of a long day. There were many benefits: it kept the streets clear for pedestrians and the occasional biker, it was cheap to maintain, provided jobs, and could run seamlessly both on the air-track and a ground line.

Accidents weren’t unheard of the in the Land of the Dead; things happened, no matter how carefully the lines were maintained. They were, admittedly, few and far between; of course, none of them were _fatal._ Everyone received the ride of their afterlife, emerging with little more than shaken nerves and the occasional missing body part that had to be dug out of the rubble. An inconvenience, but nothing damaging.

Imelda hadn’t experienced a trolley wreck. She didn’t plan to. She kept her travels well within walking distance, never straying far beyond their neighborhood. That’s what her family was for; she didn’t pay them to sit on their rears all day, not when there were deliveries to make. On the off chance that she did have to catch the streetcar for whatever reason, she was firmly in the seat nearest the door and ready to vacate in an orderly fashion should the need arise. There was no compromise, no leeway. She was ready to boot people out of that seat if she had to; she was an old woman, anyway! They should let an old lady rest her bones on whatever seat she pleases!

How, then, did she end up _here_?

Skeletons had white knuckles as a default, but hers had to be the whitest knuckles in the Land of the Dead as she clung to the thin metal railing surrounding the back exit of the car. The two benches inside had been full, but Héctor had cheerfully dragged her out the back door without issue. They hadn’t even left the station, but her knees already trembled beneath her dress. If she hadn’t been propped on the railing, she would have slid to the metal grating under her boots from sheer fright.

Héctor didn’t seem to notice, or even share her reluctance. He leaned against the back of the cabin as if he’d done it a million times before, watching the skeletons strolling up and down the platforms of the station. His body swayed with the natural rocking of the trolley as more passengers boarded, squeezing onto the benches or standing with their bones locked in the handholds. No one came to join them on the back, for which she was glad. The less people to hear her inevitable scream, the better.

The station was crowded, even for a Sunday afternoon; everyone was taking advantage of the pleasant, sunny weather. Brightly colored ladies in several layers of skirts walked down the concrete dividers between the streetcars, holding hands with their paramours or twirling satin parasols over their shoulders. Families gathered in groups, parents frantically counting bouncing children as they made sure no one was accidentally left behind. People of all ages hurried between the gaps their swarming masses created, phones in their hand or purses banging off their bony hips as they ran to catch their ride.

“Are you ready?” She looked up to see Héctor grinning at her, brimming with excitement.

“Can’t we wait for the next one, and get a seat inside?” She tightened her grip on the railing. The gaps between the bars were large. What if she slipped through?

“Huh?”

“It’s not safe out here.” He looked from her face to her hands, his confusion apparent.

“Have you never ridden on the back before?” She didn’t answer, which was answer enough. “Hey, look at me.” He snapped his fingers lightly, bending down to grab her attention. “Would I bring you here if it wasn’t safe?”

“I don’t know!”

“Imelda—” He reached for her hand, paused, and then placed his fingers on hers. “Trust me. I won’t let you fall.” Of course he wouldn’t. She knew that. But accidents happen…. “It’s mostly ground track anyway, for the ride up at least.”

“Where are we going?” she asked. It was easier to change the subject than to dwell on her own fear.

“ _Es una sorpresa_.” He winked. “I guarantee you’ll like it.”

“Is that so?” She frowned, but before she could say more the trolley lurched forward with a metallic squeal. She gasped, doubling down on the bar as they barely surpassed walking speed. It picked up speed as they left the station, wind blowing her skirts against the metal bars.

“See?” She turned and swallowed a scream as saw him sitting on the bars, his feet dangling off the edge and back resting lightly against the rear of the cab. He raised both arms, balancing with a laugh. “Look, no hands!”

“Héctor!” She shouted, maternal instincts kicking in even if he was a grown man. “Get down from there right now, before you fall off!”

“I won’t fall—”

“ _Por favor, get_ _down_!” She was shaking in her boots, but she was more worried about him than herself at the moment. “Didn’t anyone teach you to be careful?!”

“No.” He walked over to her, moving in tandem with the rocking car. He stood at her side, hips swaying gently as he looked down at her. “This is about as fast as it goes, see?” He waved a hand to the streets, flying by at a steady pace. “It’s not a carnival ride.”

“It’s—I don’t—” She wanted to get off, but she didn’t dare say that aloud. If Héctor wasn’t afraid, then she couldn’t be afraid either. She could handle anything that _payaso_ could, and more. But the rumbling grate beneath her feet wasn’t helping any; what if it detached from the cab? What if they derailed? What if the wires sparked and caught fire? What if—

“Hey, _mira!_ Look, look!” He nearly took off her jaw, pointing quickly to the right. “Imelda, look! You’re gonna miss it!”

“What?” Curiously, she whipped her head to follow his finger.

“There, that house on the top of the spire? That’s where Lupe Ontiveros lives. When she’s home, anyway.”

“How do you know?” She frowned at the mansion, settled in one of the few places there wasn’t any continuous construction happening. 

“I did a few years as a tour guide. I had a debt to pay off.” He looked fondly at the house. “You learn where the celebrities are. That’s what people want to see, after all.”

“You? A tour guide?” She couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. Héctor, standing in front of a group and yammering on about some stately houses and statelier people? Telling canned jokes from a preapproved script? That sort of life would crush someone like him, who loved to think up things off the top of his head….

She looked seriously at him, tracing the designs on his cheeks with her eyes. What other jobs had he taken up just to ‘pay off his debts’? She knew, without asking, that he would have hated tours. But there was no reason for him to lie about something like that.

“I was!” he assured her. “A pretty good one too. You have to get a voice for it; once you get the tone right, it’s smooth sailing. I quit once I made enough money, but I still remember how it goes.”

“Oh really?” He didn’t answer outright, instead resting his hands on her shoulders and twisting her upper body gently to the left. He cleared his throat before speaking in a high voice, monotonous yet with a forced chipper attitude that inspired pity. 

“If you look, ladies and gentlemen, you will see your own neighborhood in the distance to your immediate left. One of the many businesses there is the Rivera _zapatería_ , founded in 1921 by a young woman from Santa Cecelia. If you’re looking for decent prices on impeccable footwear, it’s a _shoe-in_.” She couldn’t help but snort at the joke, despite its corniness. Her neighborhood was still visible in the far distance, cloudy in the haze of the afternoon. He continued, sounding robotic as he spoke with nauseatingly faux cheer.

“Now, to your right is the arts district. Home to many a patron, Frida Kahlo is said to spend her days there in the arts warehouse she procured for her students. If you’ve found yourself with a little extra cash, I’d recommend commissioning a certain seamstress in the building, known the Land over for her quick wit and quicker needles.” Imelda chuckled. That would be Ceci, one of her best customers who always ordered new shoes for her dancers. Did Héctor know her, too? He must have, or else he wouldn’t have made such a sly jab.

“Alright, I get it.” She shrugged him off, leaning away when his breath danced across the back of her jaw. “What else, Mr. Trolley-Tour-Guide?”

“ _We-ll_ …” he drawled, a mischievous note creeping into his otherwise deadpan tone. “If you look _down_ , you’ll see that you’re not holding onto anything, and haven’t been for some time now.” She gaped at him, and then followed his instructions to see that he was right. She stood in the middle of the grate, hands limp at her sides, and she… wasn’t falling off the trolley. The shock passed straight back into fear, and she fumbled for the nearest railing before turning to scowl at him. He laughed good-naturedly, and it might have been funny if it hadn’t been _her_ being duped.

“That was a dirty trick, Héctor!”

“But it took your mind off of the ride, didn’t it?” He leaned backwards against the rail, one hand clutching his hat to his head. “I told you I wouldn’t let you fall. You believe me now.”

“Hmph!” She followed the rail with her hands, getting as far away from him as possible without letting go. “Even so, is this any way to treat someone on a date with you!?” She looked away from him, jaw set as she stared across the city. They were on a hill now, but it sloped so gradually that she didn’t notice the incline. It was only when the roofs were at eye level that she realized they were going _up_. She redoubled her grip, thankful that it wasn’t an air-track. _I’ll push him over the edge myself if he lied about this being ground on the way up._

Well, she would never, but it was a nice passing thought.

“It didn’t make you feel a _little_ better?” She looked back to see him watching her, pouting a little. She sighed, rolling her eyes. It was true that he’d just been trying to make her feel better, in his own terrible way. But had he really needed to distract her to the point that she let go of her one lifeline? _He’s too distracting_. But it wasn’t his fault he distracted her. Wait, yes it was. Wasn’t it? Or… was it?

“…Maybe a little.”

* * *

“I’ve got to admit: I’ve never been here before.” Imelda sat on one end of the iron bench, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her skirts swayed around her dangling feet, caught in the constant breeze. “I’ve never even heard of a park on _top_ of a building.”

“Isn’t it amazing?” Héctor gushed, leaning against the back of the bench to stare up through the leaves. “Everything here is entirely manmade!”

“Everything in the Land of the Dead is manmade,” she pointed out sensibly. Still, he was right about it being amazing. The _Parque de las Terrazas_ was entirely fabricated—or so the informational plaque on the front gates proclaimed.  

The soft grass was artificial turf; this wasn’t surprising, since grass was a rare sight in the city. It was rolled and cut to fit the low stacked terraces that gave the park its name, solid semicircles of kneehigh walls. The groves of trees and low-lying bushes—more variations than she’d seen anywhere else in the city—were elaborate sculptures, moving with a slightly metallic rasp in the wind. Their leaves were pale silk, and when viewed through the sun she could see patterns of veins painted on their delicate surfaces. From far away, it was hard to tell that they weren’t real trees at all.

The park was on top of a multileveled bank building. They’d climbed so far up that the trolleys turned in front of it, taking an air-track back down to the lower spires. The ground barely swayed beneath them whenever the wind picked up; sitting down she found that she could ignore it, though it made her dizzy if she thought about it for too long. She had no clue how the younger generations could stand to live in those high-rises being built in droves. It was possible to see them moving sometimes, especially if a storm was approaching. A harrowing lifestyle, to be sure.

Imelda settled against the curved back of the bench, looking out at the park. She could see why Héctor had declared it to be his favorite spot. They were enfolded by a small clump of willows facing the broad, rounded edge of the terrace. Beneath its wall, the concrete path curved its length before reaching the stairs they’d taken to get here. The paths ran in symmetrical patterns around the park; from their standpoint it was easy to see the looping circles they made.

 The trees provided ample shade from the sun, and with the way their branches seemed to enfold the space around the bench it was as though they were locked in their own little world. Imelda felt as if she were peering at the park through a picture frame, the shifting silk ropes of willow leaves curling around a picturesque view of laughing children and happy families.

The park wasn’t overcrowded, but there were plenty of people out enjoying the weather. Imelda wondered how they—and Héctor—had found this place. She’d never known it had existed before today. Did they all live nearby? Did they work in the offices so many stories below her feet? There was no way to know for sure, and like in most places in the city, there were skeletons from every generation gathered together like participants in a hundred-year pageant. 

People sunbathed on outstretched blankets, alebrijes curled asleep while the masters bleached their bones. Students lay on their stomachs, sunglasses slipping from their skulls as they poured over books or listened to music. Parents reclined side by side, watching their children as they leaped up and down the terraces in their play. On the concrete paths, joggers pounded the pavement, using empty benches to aid their warm-up exercises. Couples strolled in both directions, so closely intertwined that it was sometimes hard to tell whose bones were whose.  

It was peaceful here, and compared to the rest of the city it was relatively quiet. They were high enough that the constant rush of music and voices couldn’t reach them. The only sound to break the dull roar of conversation and shrieks of childish laughter was the streetcar bells, ringing as they turned to start the descent. It was a far cry from the sleepy tranquility of her hometown—something she missed with a fierce ache—but it was a breath of fresh air nonetheless.

_I could sit here forever and be fully content._ The thought caught her by surprise, but it wasn’t an unwelcome one.

Héctor had taken off his straw hat, propping it up against a silken rosebush. Imelda watched a pair of kites balancing delicately in the air, their tails dancing, and felt his proximity. He was close enough to touch, with only the bench and air between them, but he was purposefully maintaining his distance. It was nostalgic; if the bench had been stone instead of metal, they might have been young again.

Neither of them said a word, and the silence grew. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers tracing the lines of her phalanges and twisting them until the memory holding them together threatened to give with a snap not unlike a weak rubber band. She didn’t fall apart nearly as often as her brothers did, but she liked to remind herself how easy it would be to just lose a finger if she wasn’t careful. Bones couldn’t be replaced, after all, not like wigs or eyes. She would always feel that loss.

She looked away from the kites to find herself being watched. Héctor stared at her, absently tugging on a strand of hair near his temple. Their eyes met and both quickly looked away, laughing nervously. She ducked her head, gazing intently at the pattern of the gray linen as the sunlight hit it. He turned the other direction, watching a skeletal dove hop along the path in search of crumbs.

She was still startled by his altered appearance. Of course she’d thought him somewhat handsome—in his own way—in the living world. Well, _very_ handsome, no matter what anyone else had said. The twins used to tease her mercilessly, whispering when they were sure their parents couldn’t hear. ¡ _El caballo y el elefante_! _How ugly the babies will be!_ At least karma had come back to bite them there; they’d been smitten with Coco from the day she was born.

Still, the memory of that handsome youth had never carried over to this world. Oh, he was Héctor, sure—but skeleton-Héctor. Sort of. In the same way that her brothers were just skeleton-Oscar and skeleton-Felipe, her parents skeleton-Mamá and skeleton-Papá. Themselves in spirit, of course, but separate in her mind from the living world. She hadn’t thought a skeleton could be _handsome_ at all.

Until now.

She’d told him last night that to her, he was the same. She’d meant that he was still himself, with his exaggerated expressions and crazy ideas. That she saw him for who he was inside. But now… now he was clean and presentable, and he looked more like himself physically. Maybe his clothes were patched, but they’d _always_ been patched. He’d been nothing more than a poor orphan with a gift for music, living with a tía who, as far as she knew, had been some distant relation and not really his aunt at all. He’d never had brand new clothes, not until after they were married.

He looked like Héctor again, even without skin or muscles or nerves. And he was still… rather fetching. It made it hard to look at him; she felt the urge to blush like a young girl, and she was most certainly not that anymore. Instead, she pretended to be interested in a cluster of faux pines on a lower terrace.

“Do you like it here?”  

“ _Sí_.” She nodded, smiling as two children ran along the path, chasing a terrier _alebrije_ the size of a small truck. They didn’t even notice the pair watching them, they were so absorbed in their play.

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad.” She looked out of the corner of her eye, seeing him tracing the pinstripes on his pants. “You should come back at night, when the lights are on. There’s a viewpoint across the park that looks out over the city. It’s—it’s nice.”

“I’ll have to come and see it.”

“Yeah.” He continued to follow the lines with one finger, endlessly back and forth. The tension wound tighter with every passing moment; she wished that something, anything, would break it. For once she wouldn’t have minded if he’d filled the gaps in conversation with his usual mindless talk, but he was mute. She tried to think of something to say, to get him started at least, but pulled a blank. Why was this so hard? What were they supposed to do, sit in silence for the rest of the day? There had to be something they could talk about.

Maybe the other couples at the park could give her an idea? She looked around at all the pairs, scattered around the terraces. Most of them were well on their way to needing a room, all but undressed and tangled up on their picnic blankets, or sprawled across the benches around the footpath. She frowned, averting her eyes at the lack of propriety. They were in public _,_ for goodness sake! There were children present! _The modern youth… we would have never dreamed of kissing like that in the plaza, not when we were married and **certainly** not when courting—_

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. _Just look at him. That’s all._ She could do that, at least. Nerves be damned. She fisted her hands in her skirts, turning her head while the rest of her stayed as stiff as starch. Héctor glanced up at the movement and their eyes met again. This time she didn’t look away, a fierce, determined expression on her face.

“We should probably talk about something.”

“Uh— _sí_ , of course!” He jumped on the idea eagerly. “Um… how have you been?”

“Good.” She paused, but decorum spoke for her and she had no choice but to say, “…And you?”

“Good.” _This is getting us nowhere._ “How’s the shoe business?”

“It’s fine.” How else was she supposed to reply to that? “How… is the music?” _Idiot. What a stupid question._

“Eh.” He made a face. “I’ve got some writer’s block, but it’ll clear up.” They stared blankly at each other, once again out of things to say.

“I see.” _This is really getting us nowhere!_ Héctor scratched his head, upsetting his neat hairstyle. Her skirts had to be least wrinkled in the park by now. Something bubbled within her, part frustration and part anxiety; before she knew it her palms slapped flat against her legs. “This is ridiculous!” Héctor jumped at the outburst, nearly tumbling backwards over the arm of the bench.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, clearly unsure as to what he was apologizing for.

“We are _married_. We shouldn’t have this much of a problem talking to each other.” She stood up, hands on her hips. She began to pace before the bench, using one of the few physical outlets she had. “Why should it be this difficult?”

“Sorry,” he simpered, tugging at his bandana with a helpless, worried smile. She turned on him, scowling as she tilted her head forward. He leaned away as she loomed over him, eyes widening and one leg starting to rise defensively.

“Why are you saying that?! It’s my fault, too!” He wilted, eyes unable to settle on any one things as he scrubbed his palms on his trousers. She realized he was trying to rub away the feeling of sweat there.

“I don’t know?” he guessed, wincing in anticipation of an outburst. He shifted on the bench under her scrutiny, voice dropping to a whisper. “ _Estoy tan nervioso_.”

“And I’m not?” The weak grin wavered at the corners before falling completely. She fell beside him on the bench, running a hand over the gray lines to smooth her hair as her frustration melted. It only hid the uneasiness she felt, and once it was gone she was as apprehensive as before. Why were they both on edge like this? It didn’t make any sense; they should have been able to at least hold a civil conversation.

“I just don’t want to mess anything up.” His expression was surprisingly solemn, jaw working as he looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to say anything that might… make you… change your mind.”

“Change my mind?” Was that why he didn’t talk at all? Was he so afraid of saying something so outrageous that she would just get up and _leave_? How absurd! Then again, she didn’t have the best record when it came to listening to him without censure. It was entirely possible that, to him, she was only doing this as a favor. “I’m not going to change my mind,” she promised. He made a halfhearted motion that she took to be a shrug. “We have to talk _sometime_ , Héctor.”

“I know we do.” He stretched his fingers on his thigh, tapping nervously. “I… I just don’t know what to say.” So they were back at square one. He didn’t add anything else, and she swallowed a sound of impatience. They were just dancing around the problem, weren’t they? They could talk, but talking would mean explaining about the past hundred years, and to do that would bring up the fact that they’d been apart for a century.

 The way she saw it, there were two choices: continue to say nothing, or jump the coals and be through with it. He wasn’t going to make that choice; it was clearly up to her now, to prod them both in the direction of the fire. 

 “Fine.” She sat up straight, brushing off her sleeves before twisting on the bench to face him. “We’re going to do this _my_ way now.”

“Y-your way?” He looked even more uneasy, if such a thing was possible. “W-what do you mean?”

“We are going to ask each other questions now,” she declared. “We’ll take turns about who asks the questions, and who answers them.” She nodded to herself as she explained; this was the easiest way. It would be better to just ask what they wanted to ask and get the worst of it out of the way now, instead of saving it to rotten in the backs of their minds and possibly spoil anything they could have created.

“Questions? What kind of…” he tapered off, unconvinced.

“Any kind.” She frowned knowingly at him as he dug his bare toes into the turf. “Really, Héctor: it’s been a hundred years, and you can’t think of a single question to ask?”

“I—well—” He mumbled under his breath, skull slumping lower and lower on his spine until it was in danger of slipping into his ribs by accident. She snapped her fingers, mouth pressed into a thin line; that was the last thing she needed this afternoon. She already had enough of that from her _yerno_.

 “Héctor.” She felt the heat creeping up her neck, resisting the urge to yank at her collar. “We both know the real reason we aren’t saying anything.” He didn’t respond, but the silence said more than enough for the two of them. “Last night…”

“Imelda—”

“Let me finish.” She swallowed, trying to keep her voice level. If she went any higher she’d have every dog in the park howling when she opened her mouth. “Last night, you asked me if I wanted to start over. Did you mean it?”

“Of course,” he agreed quietly. He was staring again. She settled with scrutinizing the shock of red at his breastbone, unable to hold both his gaze and her train of thought.

“Well, then: we’re starting over, right now.” She swallowed, trying to ignore the pressure in her chest. If she’d still had a heart, it would have been pounding. “We’ve both done things—it doesn’t matter now if they were right or wrong—and we can’t just forget them, either. Life might not have turned out the way we wanted, but we can’t change any of it.”

“No, we can’t,” he echoed wearily.

“From now on… from now on it shouldn’t matter. Don’t you think so?” He didn’t answer, clearly waiting for her to finish her thought. “That was then, and this is now.” Her voice sounded strong, much stronger than she really felt. Inside, she trembled like one of leaves fluttering above her head. “All of it, no matter what it was—let’s leave it in the living world.”

“I left.” It wasn’t accusatory this time; he said it as fact, and she took it willingly.

“And I was angry,” she agreed. “We can talk about it all we want, but talking won’t change it. We’re past that now.” She should have been past it long ago, but she was stubborn and aching. The anger had been pain, kept locked deep within her so that she wouldn’t have to see the truth. But there was nothing to be done about it, except move on. 

“A clean slate.” He rubbed the back of his neck, foot bouncing in the air to its own rapid tempo. “That’s what you’re saying.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right.” It’s what they both needed. Wasn’t that the reason they were out here in the first place? They were like two pieces of uncut leather, tanned hide with no real use in their current state. They could make a proper shoe, but first there was so much work to be done. “So. We will ask each other questions,” she repeated. “We’ll catch up, and be ready to start on a new foot.” A good plan, if she said so herself.

“What if you don’t want to answer my question?” He carefully scratched at a flake of paint on the bench, pretending to be enthralled by the cracked patterns it made.

“I will answer all your questions, if you answer all of mine.” If they couldn’t answer each other with full honesty, what was the point of even trying?

“But what if you don’t like my answers?” he asked in a small voice, still refusing to look up from the flake.

“Then that’s my own problem.” She straightened her spine, lacing her fingers on her lap to keep from fidgeting. “I’ll just have to handle it.” Did he really think she was going in blind? She had an idea of the things that went on in the world, both living and dead. There was nothing he could say that would surprise her—alright, that was a lie.

 “I—” He broke off and she saw him physically reeling himself in. “I don’t want you to think less of me.” His voice was tight, filled with shame.

“And what if it’s you thinking less of me?” His head jerked, mouth parting as he looked her over seriously. He couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking. “I’ve done things I’m not very proud of, Héctor.” He didn’t respond, but his mouth evened into a narrow line as the words took hold. “I know you have, too. _Sí_?” He nodded slowly, shoulders hunching.

“I’d never think less of you, though.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” It took him a moment to understand that she was trying to tease him, although it wasn’t very good. He was always the jokester, not her. “Besides, what makes you think I would think less of you?”

“Any lower and you’ll hit water,” he croaked.

“What?”

“Because… there’s water… under Shantytown—” He faltered sheepishly. “Your expectations are so low already that you’d hit water if they went lower,” he stammered again, and she realized he was trying to tease her in return. They were both so rusty that it hardly sounded funny at all; she found herself smiling anyway. At least he was putting forth an effort.

“Very funny.”

“…I try.” He was still clearly worried, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he searched for a comfortable position. “Imelda, are you _sure_ this is really what you want to do? We don’t have to do it now, we can wait—I won’t be in a rush, we promised to go slow—”

“It’s better to get it out in the open now, before we start anything else.” She spoke slowly, convincing herself as much as she was him. She would be lying if she said the thought of putting it off didn’t sound appealing. It was like falling; she knew it would hurt when she hit the ground, but no amount of flailing would stop the inevitable. “No more hiding. From either of us.” He nodded again.

“Right.” He took a slow breath, the sound whistling through the gaps in his teeth. “You… you want to know that you can trust me. And that I can trust you,” he surmised.

“That’s right.”

“Because if we can’t trust each other now, from the beginning, then what’s the point?” She had been thinking the same thing, but it sounded so _blunt_ when he said it. He closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth dropping along with his shoulders. She waited, knowing without really understanding how that he needed a moment to think. Then his head tilted forward, rocking his weight onto his feet, and with a shock she recognized the gesture. It was the way he sat when making important decisions. It always served to remind her that he was more than the goofy act he put on for the world; he really did use that brilliant mind rattling around in his skull.

The last time she’d seen it was the night he’d made the decision to leave.

She was consigned to wait, taking the time to compose herself. He had given her _days_ to make up her own mind; she could give him as much time as he needed. This wasn’t something that either of them could—should—jump headfirst into, anyway. He remained still, a living-dead statue resting his head on steepled fingers. He could have just as easily been praying as thinking. After what felt like an eternity, he opened his eyes and sat up with a firm nod. Whatever internal struggle he faced had, at least temporarily, been resolved.   

“Alright. You can go first. Ask me anything.” Where to begin? There were so many, many things she wanted to ask him. Curiosity had always been one of her main faults, but beyond that was the pressing need to know all she could about him. It burned in her, wondering what he’d been doing for so many years. Even when she turned him away, a part of her always wondered where he went to when not trying to—at the time, she thought—sweep everything he’d done under the rug.

The first one to float from the sea of questions and take firm root in her mind had her second-guessing the entire plan. It was too personal, too invasive. It was none of her business. But weren’t all her questions going to be just a little personal? They were about him, after all. _You can’t be a coward now, Imelda._ She encouraged herself as best she could. _You want to trust him? You’ll have to ask it sometime._

“I suppose that I should just start with the most obvious.” The look he gave her told her that he was already guessing her thoughts. She wondered briefly if the same question had been on his mind, about her. She stumbled, taken aback at the notion, and he mistook it for hesitancy.

“ _Puedes preguntarme lo que quieras_ ,” he repeated, encouraging her with a soft smile. Her heart climbed into her throat, choking her breath, and she forced it back down with a cough.

“Was there ever… anyone else?” Once the question was out, it seemed silly to be afraid of it. “In the living world, here: it doesn’t matter to me.”

“That’s an easy one.” The joke didn’t take hold, falling flat between them. “No,” he continued, taking a more serious tone. “No others.” She believed him wholeheartedly, but the admission was both expected and confusing. She was puzzled; why did she feel so torn about it? _No one? Not in a century?_

“Why not?”

“I thought we were taking turns.” He was right, of course, but she could see him avoiding the question quite clearly. She latched onto it, feeling something just beneath the surface. It was like the shining metal of the bench, hidden beneath the paint. If she could peel away just enough to get the entire picture….

“You can ask two in return. We’ll be even.” He crossed his arms, not taking her bait.

“That’s breaking the rules. Besides, you said—”

“Why don’t you want to answer me?” He stopped midsentence, stunned. There was no doubt about it this time: he was blushing, and hard. He slunk down in the seat, nearly sliding off the smooth curve of the bench as he worked to avoid her intense stare. A peculiar grimace slid over his face and she balked, suddenly reminded of her daughter. Coco used to look the same way whenever she’d been found out. “Héctor?”

“I—you’re not going to like the answer.” He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers digging into the bone of his lower jaw. 

“ _Está bien_.” She tried to look as reassuring as possible. Still, he was as far away from her as he could be, distancing himself as much as the arm of the bench would let him. His face was full of pain, a mixture of regret and affection that struck her at the core.

“It’s not,” he insisted quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve hurt you too much already.” _What could he have to say that would hurt me so badly?_ She wondered, the thought immediately followed by a wave of trepidation. She didn’t want to be hurt, any more than he wanted to hurt her. But in the same moment, she knew that the things she would say might hurt him, too. Especially if they were the truth.

There was nowhere for him to back away, not with his spine already pushed against the bench rail. She had to move forward, scooting across the metal to bridge the gap between them, even a little. He watched her advance with wide eyes, seizing up as her skirts came nearer and nearer to his legs. Gathering her courage, she reached boldly for his hand. There was plenty of time to yank it out of her reach, but he let her take his limp fingers and hold them in her own.

“ _Está bien._ ” Her voice rang with confidence. “I can take it, as long as I know it’s the truth.” His fingers slowly closed around hers, and then squeezed as though he expected her to change her mind and pull away at any moment. She squeezed back. “Believe me, Héctor.” _Trust me._

He gulped, mouth trembling and his other hand fisting at his side. All at once, as clearly as if he’d said it aloud, she knew exactly why there had never been anyone else. He didn’t have to say a word. Her hold on his fingers had to be painful at this point, but he didn’t let go. Instead, his firm grip steadied her as she prepared for the blow.

“Why?” She would let him say it. She wouldn’t stop this. _Don’t spare me_. _I have to hear it._

“I was waiting for you,” he whispered. She felt it as cleanly as if it had been a knife, right through her ribs and angled for her heart. Her jaw clenched, and she tried to focus on the warmth of his hand encompassing hers. “I was just another husband who’d died first. I thought I’d be meeting you and taking you to live with me, wherever my home was. I didn’t know you wouldn’t be happy to see me.”

It hurt.

Hadn’t she known? It was far too easy to guess the _why,_ once she knew the how. He’d never known that Ernesto wouldn’t tell, any more than she’d known he was dead in the first place. Her first instinct was to brace against the pain, to ball it up and shove it to the back of her mind for later. She could look at it again when she was alone, some night when she lay sleepless in bed and needed something to think about.

But she’d asked for this; she owed it to him to feel it now, like a woman. If he could be brave enough to tell her the truth, there was no reason she couldn’t be brave enough to face that same truth. She swallowed her tears, taking it one shaky breath at the time; the emotion soaked through her breast from the contact wound, guilt spreading through her limbs like fire.

“Imelda!” She couldn’t answer him yet, and so she didn’t. “Imelda, please,” he begged. “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have… say something….” _You can’t shield me from my own bad judgement_! She wanted to scream, but bit her tongue. It would do neither of them any good, no matter how bad she felt. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry….” His other hand reached for her, and despite the way she’d treated him for the past few months she would have gladly accepted any comfort he gave. She welcomed his hand on her cheek, her shoulder, her lap—anywhere. She would have let him gather her up like a child, clasping her to him the way he’d wanted to in the alley weeks ago. This time there were no flowers to fight over, no hidden agendas to worry about. She would have let him hold her the way a husband should hold his wife, and been happy for it.

But the comfort didn’t come. His hand faltered in midair before pulling back uncertainly, afraid to overstep what few boundaries they did have. She didn’t blame for it; how could she? It was her own fault he was scared to touch her. She’d had nothing but negative reactions to it for years.

“No. Don’t apologize.” She soaked up what she could get from their joined hands instead. “Thank you,” she choked out. “For being honest.”

“Imelda.” He opened his mouth, and closed it without speaking. This time, the lack of words were welcome. She reveled in it, knowing that he was offering this reprieve in lieu of physical comfort. It was all he could give her comfortably. She composed herself quietly, the hurt retreating to something bearable. When she was sure she could speak again she gave his hand a lighter squeeze, added gratitude that she couldn’t put into words.

“It’s time for your questions, Héctor. You get two.”

“Were there any others? For you, I mean.”

“No.” The confession was almost too easy. “No one else.”

“Why not?” She was ready to answer, but the moment she went to speak she found that she was embarrassed. _Imelda, the woman who chased her own husband away._ A slew of faces paraded through her mind, men who had coveted her hand and came up short. She’d always been too busy for courting… and that was the biggest lie of all. She couldn’t tell him that, not when he’d been so honest to her. She faltered, stammering.

“I—well—t-they weren’t… you.” From the look on his face, that was the very last thing he’d ever expected her to say. _Well, didn’t you know!?_ Apparently not; he was astounded, jaw hanging open as he processed her words.

“They weren’t me?” A frown took the place of his astonishment, and he pondered. “Wait… wait.” His eyes darted around, the gears turning at high speed. “Wait… wait, wait… wa—Imelda!”

“What?!”

“They weren’t me?” He was happy now. He should have been, had a right to be, but that didn’t stop her whole face from lighting on fire. She was infinitely glad that he could see; or perhaps he could. He was better at reading her expressions, but even she was able to tell when he was flushed. The happiness morphed into something smug and satisfied. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said musingly, scratching the side of his head. She found him watching her with an old, mischievous glint in his eye and her blush renewed with full force.

Oh, he could tell.

“I think,” he continued, ignoring her mental turmoil, “that you would have been happy with Cedro.”

 “The carpenter?!” _As if_! The indignation was almost too much to bear. She would have never chosen Cedro, that… that… _baboon._ He had barely been able to hold a hammer, much less have known what it was used for. The fact that he reproduced at all was a miracle, and probably some sort of immaculate conception at that.

“Or what about Stefano? I know Stefano liked you; he could have provided for you.”

_“Stefano_!?” Now he was just being insulting. She glowered at him, appalled at the thought of ever kissing that trout of a man. “I would have never chosen that buffoon!” she snapped, crossing her arms. She couldn’t have been happy with either of them; not only would she have torn her own hair out from frustration, but—well, Stefano had barely come up to her shoulders, and Cedro couldn’t have carried a tune to save his life. _They weren’t him._

“Besides,” she added, not giving him the pleasure of renewing her earlier sentiment, “They were both married soon after you left. Within the year, in fact.”

“Oh really?” She could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. “I guess that settles it, then.”

“I guess it does. It’s my turn now, anyway.” She shot him a look, not surprised to see him looking more at ease. _Of course that would only come from teasing me._ What question to ask now?

“Were you a musician after you died?”

“Sort of.” He made a face. “I didn’t have my songbook _or_ my guitar when I crossed. Guess now I know why.”

She winced, still unused to that bitterness in his voice. It was so unlike him to hold a grudge against anyone, but she could hardly blame him. After all, it had been such a shock to them all; even she had never guessed any foul play, and certainly not from Ernesto. She’d seen that man cower under Lucía’s wrath so many times that it seemed strange to think of him as a monster, something to fear. Even when she was onstage she hadn’t been as worried about herself as she was about what would happen to Héctor and Miguel if she didn’t succeed.

“I was an extra in Frida’s orchestra until Ernesto came along. Then I just couldn’t stomach it anymore. I made myself scarce and started taking up odd jobs.” He sighed. “Music just didn’t seem to be worth it for a while.” The melancholy creeped into a voice, a stark contrast from his earlier happiness.

“Until Miguel came, _sí_?”

“Right.” He perked up at the mention of their progeny. “The boy has a gift. I couldn’t ignore it; it reminded me of what it used to be like. My turn?” She nodded. “How did you die?” Not a surprising question; estranged couples had a special clause in the Dept. of Family Reunions, and they’d waited until she was awake before asking if she wanted her husband to be there. Met with a resounding _no_ , they’d not even bothered to call him and let him know she had joined the dead. He never had the chance to talk to the doctors, and learn his own wife’s fate.

“I’d had a heart attack, but it wasn’t what killed me.” She unconsciously put a hand to her ribs, feeling the gaps with the edges of her fingers. “I remember being sick, and laying in the bed. Everything’s a blur; I think I must have had a high fever, because I can’t remember anything more than Coco and the doctor standing over me, and being unable to breathe well. I went to sleep and I woke up here.” She waved to the park, as if she was able to hold the entire city in the palm of her hand. “They said my heart couldn’t handle the strain. I just… stopped.”

“Did it hurt you?”

“It’s my turn.” He blew at his bangs with a stubborn huff, but didn’t stop her. “Did you find your family here? Did you get to meet your parents?”

“No. I guess they must have been Forgotten when I died. There was no one to meet me, not even Tía.” He shrugged matter-of-factly, with a distanced air that she couldn’t feel. Did that come from living in Shantytown? Had he seen enough death that the thought no longer bothered him? A shudder ran down her frame, but he was still talking. “It makes sense. I never had a chance to pass what few stories I had to you or Coco. You never knew Tía, did you?”

“I was there when they cleaned her body.” She still remembered her first sight of the little house the living Riveras still inhabited. They’d added on as the years marched by, but back then it had been little more than a three-roomed shack in the poor quarters.

“But you didn’t _know_ her.”

“No.” In her mind’s eye she saw the shriveled little woman Héctor had loved like a mother, face still and solemn in death. What had her skull looked like? What designs had danced over her bones? Did Héctor share some of them? “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see her again.”

“It happens to everyone. No big deal.” She could hear the pain under the casual dismissal. To him, it _was_ a big deal. He’d been hoping, no matter what he said now. Maybe he wasn’t as hardened as he liked to appear. It made her sick to her stomach; she’d been able to reunite with her parents and other family members that had passed on before her. It didn’t seem fair that he’d been too young to know his own family in life, and was cheated _again_ in death. “My turn.”

_“_ Go ahead.”  

“Did dying hurt?” _Again_? Well, he’d always been persistent. She should have known better. Her thoughts flashed back to those long half-remembered days at the end. She could barely recall anything other than the sensation of floating, lost in a haze where nothing made sense. The pressure on her chest had been too much to bear, stuck on her back without the strength to even whisper for help.

_Mamá, help me… I can’t breathe…._

“It hurt as much as the next person, I suppose.” She shook off the memory, feeling strangely queasy. “And it’s never so bad after you wake up, so there’s not much point in remembering it.” She managed to sound nonchalant, which was more than she had hoped for. “Did it hurt when _you_ died?”

“I thought it was food poisoning for so long. My luck had never been good, you know? I’d died before I realized what was happening.” Something about his explanation didn’t sit right with her. A moment later, she realized why.

“That’s not an answer, Héctor.” She frowned. “I asked if it hurt.”

“…It hurt.” He groped absently for his stomach, as if he still felt the pain. A chill ran over her, down to her boots and back again _._ She’d told Lucía about her misgivings, and they’d not diminished since then. _What if he was in pain?! What if he was hurting—and he still—_ “Hey, hey.” He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, this time being the one to reassure her. “It didn’t hurt for long. No more or less than anyone else, like you said. Right?”

“He didn’t—did that _cabrón_ leave you? Did you….” She trailed off, unsure of how to voice her fears to him.

“He didn’t, Imelda. I didn’t know anything.” He squeezed her hand in bursts, like a pulse. “It was like… that.” He snapped. “Over before I knew what was happening. I _promise_.” He sat there, thumb tracing a line on her hand as he let the information soak into her.

“Alright.”

“My turn, yeah?” She nodded. “This is one I’ve been wanting to ask for a long time,” he confessed, his tone purposefully upbeat. “Ready?”

“What?”

“Why shoes?” He shook his head. “I mean, you could have made clothes, or—or candy, but _shoes_?”

“Coco needed shoes,” she replied simply. She raised one foot, shaking back the skirts to look at her boot. She’d been buried in them—all Riveras were buried with the first pair of shoes they ever made, and wearing their favorite shoes on their feet to start the afterlife off right. She’d taken good care of them, and they’d repaid the favor to her a thousand-fold. They were as good a pair of boots _now_ as they were when her brothers had given them to her on her fifty-fifth birthday. “I didn’t have the money to pay for new ones. Don Martín offered to teach me how to make them myself, and I agreed.”

“Don Martín… was he the fat guy with the lisp?”

“ _No_.” Imelda pointed to her chin. “He had a wart right here.”

“Oh, I remember him! So he taught the whole family, huh?”

“No, he taught _me_.” Imelda let herself feel a small sense of self-satisfaction. “I taught the twins, and the three of us taught Coco, then Julio, and everyone else.” Her chest swelled with pride and love. “Riveras are shoemakers, through and through. Our family still makes the best shoes in the Land of the Living.” 

“And the Land of the Dead. Didn’t you hear the tour guide on the way here?” he joked. “Anyway, it’s your turn now.” He seemed to be himself again, and she felt herself relaxing in turn. This wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be. She felt comfortable enough to ask the next question frankly.

“Tell me: did you have fun travelling?” She plucked at the top button on her collar. “I know what your letters said, but I want to hear it from you.” He didn’t reply immediately, but he wasn’t angry or offended. He was just thinking hard, as if the question had never crossed his mind before.

“I had fun sometimes,” he finally said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “There were a lot of good things about it. The music, for one. And I saw so many new things. But it ended up being too much for me.” His brow furrowed. “Ernesto loved it. I think he was just bored. He wanted excitement, nightlife. He craved everything he could get his hands on. But the more I saw of the world, the more I wanted to go home. It’s so _big_.” He closed his eyes, overwhelmed with the very thought. “Even Mexico is so big… too big. I just wanted to make my world small again. I wanted my hometown.”

“It’s not our hometown anymore.” He looked questioningly at her. “Every year I go back and I can’t recognize it. They’re tearing down the old buildings, changing the way the streets look; even the plaza isn’t the same anymore. And Ernesto’s big head is right in the _middle_ of it,” she complained, throwing her hand up in defeat. “They took out the fountain for him! Can you believe it?”

“No… really?”

“And then they say that Santa Cecelia is an _old-fashioned_ town, as if its stuck in history. It looks nothing like the way it used to be. Maybe Julio can remember it better, but it’s not my home anymore.” She paused, thinking. “And yet it _is_.”

“I bet.” The thought crossed both their minds that, with Miguel not being able to save Héctor’s photo, he’d never get to see just how much it had changed. Neither of them commented on it, and after a moment Imelda began again.

“And the way they talk and dress—I mean, look!” She waved her hands to the park. “Even here they have no decency, no moderation in what they do. Every year I wish they could hear me when we go to the _ofrenda_. I would shake some sense into that Gloria; she puts on her makeup so thick, and little Rosa watches everything she does! Before anyone knows it, that child will be hiding under ten pounds of false lashes and—”

“Who?”

“ _Gloria_!” It hit her that he had no way of knowing who any of the living family was. “Victoria’s niece. Miguel’s tía.”

“Victoria’s niece… _Gloria_.” He said it slowly, committing the name to memory. “Will you tell me about them, Imelda?” he asked suddenly.

 “Tell you?”

“About the family in the living world. Our family. Tell me all about them.”

“ _Dios mío_ , where do I even start?” She went over all the names in her mind, one by one. There were over three generations of Riveras still alive, and he wanted her to _tell_ him about every single one? That would take far more time than they had; they’d be sitting here until next _Día de Muertos_!

“Miguel’s parents.” He leaned forward eagerly. “What are they like? What are their names? Who is our _mijo_ most like? Which one does he look like? Talk like? Act like?”

“Slow down!” Imelda’s head spun with the questions. “His parents. Enrique and Luisa. Enrique is also Victoria’s nephew, the baby—well, he’s not a baby now, I suppose. But he was. Miguel is like him, I think. They both put their hearts into what they do, only Enrique—very sensibly, I might add—put _his_ heart into shoes. He’s a good man, a good husband. A fine shoemaker, as good as his mamá if not better.”

“And Luisa is a sweet girl.” She smiled benevolently. “She’s got a shaky hand when it comes to hammering, but she rivals Victoria on the sewing machine. Every year I see her work and wish I could stay one more day, to know how she gets those double seams to sit on each other without making a ridge.” She stopped, seeing his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “What?”

“I asked about _them_ , Imelda. Not about their shoes.” He clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling his quiet laughter as she stuck her nose in the air.

“And?! I just told you that Riveras are shoemakers, through and through! You can tell a lot by how they sew a sole!”

“Sew a sole?”

“Everyone always looks forward to seeing the children make their first pair of shoes on their own. It’s a rite of passage. Why, Abel—Miguel’s oldest cousin—is doing his best! He… he needs some work,” she admitted, wincing at the memory of the workbench covered in his crooked, misguided shoe nails. She’d overheard Berto telling Elena that they’d try him out on polishing for a while, until they could figure out what to do about his hand-eye coordination. “But we Riveras do everything by shoes. Why, we even get _married_ by shoes!”

“What?!”

“Elena—Victoria’s little sister—gave her husband a new pair of boots as a sign of her love.” She clasped her hands over her heart. “When you make shoes, you spend so many hours thinking of the person who will wear them. It’s such a romantic gift; who could resist something so lovingly made?” She turned to see him gawking at her. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“Y-you make someone boots as—as a sign of your love?” he squeaked, voice cracking on a high note.

“That’s what I said, isn’t i—” He gave her a timid smile, hunkering in the seat with his hands loosely between his knees. “N-n-n-not _all_ boots!” she stuttered, realizing what he meant. “I didn’t mean _me_ , I was talking about the children! Stop assuming things!”

“I see.” It was too late to convince him otherwise; she could feel the elation radiating off of him from where she sat. _Ugh!_ That’s not at all why she started making his boots; she just couldn’t let him go around saying Rivera shoes gave him blisters, that’s all! It was just to preserve her good name, not because she actually cared! Why would he think that? No, why would she even _say_ that? Had she lost her mind?!

“Good! Anyway, it’s my turn to ask a question now.”

“No.” Some of the elation left his face. “It was mine.”

“You asked about Miguel’s parents.”

“I asked about the _family_ , but you just told me about their shoes.”

 “It’s too much to tell you right now!” she protested. “At least wait until I can show you some pictures, too.”

“You have photos?! Real photos?” He bounced up in the seat, eyes shining like a child’s.

“Real _color_ photos.” He sucked in a breath, silent with wonder. “In an album at home. I’ll show you sometime, if you remind me.”

“ _Sí_ , of course.”

“My turn,” she insisted. “Since we’re talking about family, what do you think of Julio?”

“What do I… think?”

“Yes. He’s Coco’s husband, after all.”

“Uh…” Héctor tilted his head, frowning. “I don’t really know enough about him to think _anything_. It’s hard to wrap my mind around. I think of Coco the way I left her—I mean, I know she’s not a baby anymore,” he added quickly, “but she’s still—in a way—it’s hard to think that she had children, and _those_ children had children. What was her wedding like?”

“It was very nice. Coco was excited. She sewed her own wedding dress, with Rosita’s help.”

“ _Rosita_ is nice.”

“Oh, yes. She’s always been.” Imelda made a face, wishing she had a nose to wrinkle. “Just a little overexcited. But they bonded over that dress. I think I have a photo of that too, somewhere.” Imelda chuckled. “Coco made me take a backseat. She said I was overexerting myself, trying to do too much.”

“The ceremony was nice, then.”

“It was lovely.” Héctor smiled sadly. “I thought Coco might cry, but I should have known better. That child was always stronger than I could ever be. It was _Julio_ who was in tears.”

“Really!”

“When they knelt at the altar, he was so nervous that he shook the railing by mistake.” Imelda laughed harder. “I thought the poor boy would be sick when they asked him to repeat his vows. He could barely get the words out, and when Coco looked at him he clammed up altogether!”

“Where did she even meet him?” Héctor was laughing too, now. “From what you say, they sound like night and day.”

“Yes, but it worked out; I suppose that’s why they made such a good pair when they were dancing—”

“Wait. Dancing?” He looked shocked. “But I thought you—”

“Oh, trust me. She made sure I didn’t know about it.” Imelda snorted, trying to muffle the sound on the back of her hand. “She was always so _stubborn_. She gets it from you.”

“Uh, actually, I think she got that from _you_.”

“When it comes to music? No, that’s all you.” She twirled a loose hair around her finger before tucking it back into place. “She slipped up when she fell for that boy. I wouldn’t have found out otherwise, but her head was in the clouds and she was making up excuses left and right to go to the plaza. I knew it had to have been love.”

“Oh?” Héctor seemed enthralled, leaning closer as he listened. “How?”

“You think I didn’t remember what it’s like?” she scoffed, surprised at her own willing playfulness. “She thought she was being clever, but I saw right through her. Pepita and I followed her to the plaza when she wasn’t looking. I saw her there, dancing hand in hand with some strange young man I’d never seen before.” She trailed off, a phantom stutter in her chest. For one brief moment, she’d feared for her daughter. Love was wonderful, but she knew firsthand how it could hurt.

“What did you do?”

“I marched up to them and broke them apart, of course.” She smirked, remembering their guilty little faces. They’d both known they were in trouble, though it meant something different for each of them. For Coco, it was the—supposed—end of dancing. For Julio, it was the innate fear of being caught red-handed with someone’s daughter.

“You were going to drive him away from our _preciosa_?” He was only half-teasing now, and she heard a hint of the protective father he might have been.

“Not at first. They liked each other, I could tell. I just wanted to know who he was.” She grinned. “I couldn’t think of a good reason to keep them apart, so I made him my apprentice then and there. At least then I could keep a closer eye on him, and they couldn’t sneak off.” He started to snicker, and before she knew it he was bent over in gales of laughter. “It’s not that funny, is it?”

“That sounds—that _sounds_ —” The rest of his words were lost on the tail end of a belly laugh.

“That sounds like what?”

 “That sounds like something your mother would do!” He wheezed, eyes screwed shut.

“ _What_?!” _It wasn’t!_ Even as she thought it, she knew it was the truth. If her mamá had thought about it, Héctor would have probably been a stonemason’s apprentice long before they’d even considered marriage. “Well I’m glad you think that’s funny!” He covered his mouth with both hands, laughter still trickling out of him. She swallowed hard, trying not to let it infect her.

No good: she was smiling.

“Well, what would _you_ have done?” she asked once he managed to get his mirth under control. Instantly the laughter was gone from his expression, replaced by dead seriousness.

“I’d have killed him for daring to touch my daughter.” She stared at him silently, and then without warning punched his shoulder.

“Stop making fun of Papá; you could never do it right to begin with.”

“Nothing? Not even a giggle?”

“Stop making fun of my father! He never did anything to you.”

“Not when you were around.” She tsked, crossing her arms. “Anyway, I guess… it’s time.”

“Time?” He pointed at the sun, already dipping dangerously close to the taller buildings. Had they really been here a full afternoon? It hadn’t seemed long at all. She wasn’t really ready to go home, anyway; she had more questions to ask him, and it had been so nice to sit here without worrying about the family eavesdropping. In fact, she’d almost forgotten that they would be waiting on her explanation when she walked in the door.

“You said you would be home by dark. We should leave now, if we want to catch the next trolley down.” He stood, taking his skull off his spine and cracking the vertebrae with a well-placed jerk. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”

“We’re sitting inside,” she demanded, thinking of the air-track waiting on them. “Going by ground is one thing, but you will _not_ find me standing on that thing in midair.”

* * *

They sat together on the ride home. There were few people in the cabin, and they could have spread out. Imelda had thought she would _want_ to, after being on a bench with him all afternoon. But she found herself beside him, her arm looped through his and his knee pressed against hers through their clothes. It was strangely intimate, though neither of them spoke.

Imelda looked out the opposite window, watching the blurred lights flicker as afternoon turned into evening. The cabin rocked steadily, lulling her into a calm stupor. She found herself starting to lean against his shoulder in a doze, and forced herself awake with a small shake of the head. She still had a sense of modesty about that sort of thing, and she didn’t need to be making things awkward when they’d appeared to reach some sort of stasis.  

When they reached the station, she’d barely had time to stretch her bones before Héctor hurried her through the darkening streets. He was adamant on getting her home before the sun set, mumbling something about his honor and insisting that, at the very least, she had to keep her word.

 Several times she almost snapped that she was the matriarch of the family and if she wanted to stay out past dark she _could_ ; she was old enough to be out as late as she pleased, and a married woman at that! Something always stopped her, entwined with the idea that she would, effectively, be admitting she wasn’t ready to leave his company just yet. It puzzled her, and so she kept her mouth shut until she could work out exactly what it meant.

He finally let her slow to a walk when they reached her street. Her feet protested, unused to taking such a long journey and certainly not enjoying being dragged downhill for miles at a stiff jog. When they reached the front gate, she could see the lights on in the workshop. It was Sunday, not a workday, which meant the lights were on for her. She couldn’t see anyone through the windows, which meant they were actually in the back of the house. A waste of electricity, especially when the rest of the neighborhood was dark by comparison. _I’ll have to scold them for that…._ Héctor made a sound, stirring her from her thoughts as he stepped back to look at her.

“Did you have a good time?” Apparently it only took five words to make her shy. It was only marginally comforting when he appeared to be feeling the same, plucking idly at the brim of his hat while eyeballing a spot somewhere over her left shoulder. Whatever easiness they’d found in the park had been left on the trolley. But he needed an answer, and drawing things out would only make it even worse.

“Yes.” She laced her fingers behind her back, resting against the small of her spine. She wanted to shift her weight and rock from foot to foot, just to have something to do, but managed to resist the urge. “I.. I had a very nice time. Did you?”

“¡ _Por supuesto que sí_!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly. “It’s always fun to be with you.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” They were back to having nothing to say again, it seemed. He studied their feet, toeing a crack in the sidewalk.

“So… this means you’d like to do it again sometime, right?”

“Well—when did you have in mind?” It was always so much harder to pretend to be uninterested. Why did she even bother? But here she was, studying the stylized Rivera ‘R’ on the front wall as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

“Next Sunday?” Next Sunday?! Why so long? _It can’t be that long._ Before she could even begin to process the thought, she was talking.

“Actually, why don’t you come by the shop on Tuesday?” Where had that come from?! He breathed in once, the sound quick and sharp. “I need your opinion on a design for the boots. You’re the one that’s going to be wearing them, after all.”

“The boots?” _Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him._ Too late, she was looking, and cringed inwardly when she saw him wearing that elated little grin. _Would you stop acting like these are an act of love?! At the very least don’t let Rosita hear about it, or I won’t **stop** hearing about it. _

“W-Well?”

“Tuesday is perfect. Better than perfect.” He stopped, swallowed. “I mean—it’s fine.”

“Good.”

“Good!”

“Great.”

“Great!” They stood awkwardly together, neither one knowing what to say. Héctor shook himself, sticking out his hand. “Great!” he repeated, voice high and reedy. She stared at it, mouth opening absently. Did he want her to… shake his hand? Was this some sort of business transaction? Were they closing the deal?

She looked from his hand to his face, his smile freezing into a grimace as she left him hanging. Half of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the other half… well…. She obeyed it, despite not knowing if it was the lesser of two evils. She stepped past his hand, wrapping her arms around him. Or tried to; he didn’t have a middle anymore, so she was forced to hold his ribcage, chin pointed at an odd angle against his clavicle.

It turned out to be even more awkward than doing nothing, since he stiffened immediately under her touch. She froze herself, unsure about whether or not to pull away. What if she’d misread the signals? He might not have been comfortable enough around her to want a hug. Maybe he’d been offering the handshake for a different reason entirely? She felt like screaming; she really _didn’t_ remember what the protocols were.

Before she could make a choice his hands landed gently on her spine. They rested between her scapulae, barely tickling as he kept her perfectly still. He let out a low breath, ribs quivering as he held the next one. It was only when she went to pull back that he tightened his grip, arms winding around her as he pressed her to his chest with an unconscious sound.

She sucked in a breath before slowly allowing herself to relax against him, tilting her head so that she could rest her cheek on his vest. He held her close, both leaning into and supporting her weight as his upper body wrapped around her protectively. She let a soft sigh slip across his sternum, eyes drifting closed as she absorbed the moment. He was still, barely breathing as he pressed his chin to the top of her head.

It was so nice, nicer than she wanted to admit to herself. How long had it been since she’d been held like this? Too long. His arms were familiar, his chin as pointy as ever as it dug into her scalp. She shifted her weight and their ribcages slide together, somehow as tantalizing as if they’d both still had skin. She felt his hands fist in the back of her dress and a shiver ran down her spine. _Too fast? Maybe not._

“Imelda?” She reluctantly pulled back, just enough to unwind her arms from around his torso and rest her hands beneath his lapels. His face seemed close, eyes searching as he kept his arms locked around her.

“I had a nice time,” she said again, at a loss for words. Had? She was having a nice time right now.

“Me too. A very nice time.” He was leaning down, or… was she leaning up? Both, she found: her feet had decided on their own to lift her onto her toes, his arms helping to close the gap as his head ducked. Their faces drifted closer and he faltered first, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. She felt it and knew she must look the same way, excited and worried at the same time. Was this okay?

It must have been, because suddenly he wasn’t stopping and she couldn’t think of a good reason _to_ stop. She balanced on her toes, melting into him as she turned her face up to meet his. They were dangerously close now and _still_ not stopping so it _must_ be okay, his head tilting, her eyes sliding shut, ready for the first brush of his mouth—

  _Ahem._

In a flash they were apart, stumbling back at the opportunity fizzled into nothing with the first polite cough. She whirled on her heel, nearly taking Héctor’s chin with her as she searched the growing darkness. She didn’t have to look long at all, a feeling of déjà vu mingling with the rage that only a sister could know.

“Hello, you two.” Héctor greeted them hoarsely, sounding uncharacteristically tired.  Oscar smiled, all teeth and politeness as he leaned against one side of the gate. Felipe rested his shoulder against the gatepost, fingers wiggling as he waved in reply. They wore identically smug expressions, leaving no doubt as to their motives.

“What are you _doing_?!” she hissed, hands balling into fists at her sides. Oscar blinked at her, his face the picture of innocence as he glanced at his twin before responding.

“Why, we were sent here—”

“by Julio—"

“You said you’d be home by dark—”

“It’s getting late—”

“ _They_ were getting worried—”

“But don’t mind us!”

“Yes, carry on by all means!”

“ _Go inside_.” She barely recognized her own voice at this point. _I’m going to kill them._ They didn’t have their parents here to save them, either. She hadn’t been this angry at them since they’d been children. How dare they act this way! She ignored the tiny voice that admitted it still got a rise out of her to be teased by her own brothers, even as an old woman.

“No, it’s alright.” Héctor tipped his hat to them with a tight grin. “It’s getting late. I’ll see you Tuesday, right?”

“But—” Before she could protest, his hands landed on her shoulders and he bent to kiss the rise of her cheek. His mouth brushed lightly over the yellow leaves, sending a current of electricity through her. She choked on her words, unable to think of anything else as he squeezed her shoulders. “T-Tuesday.”

“See you soon.” He hovered near her temple. “ _Goodnight_.”

“I—”

“ _Adios_.” He raised his hat one last time, nodding to them over the gate.

“ _Adios_ , Héctor.” They craned their necks, watching as he walked down the street without looking back. Once he turned the corner, the twins’ eyes met and they grinned knowingly.

“So, Imelda—”

“ _Sí_ , Imelda—”

The gate crashed against the outer wall with a bang, leaving the path clear for the fuming woman. Her shoulders heaved, one finger rising to point at them.

“ _You_.” Their smiles faded, the pair immediately stepping back as she began to advance. “ _What do you have to say for yourselves_?” She’d never been so utterly humiliated; somehow it was twice as bad now that she was an adult. At least before she could excuse their mocking as boys-will-be-boys, a product of childhood. Then again, why did she ever think her brothers would change?

“What do we have to say?” Oscar pinched the end of his mustache, his other hand sliding out to gently bump the front door closed. They shared another look, Felipe elbowing Oscar as cruel grins spread over their faces.

“What do we say?”

“What else _can_ we say?” They stepped close to her, one on each side, whispering so that the others couldn’t hear.

“Héctor kissed Imelda, Héctor kissed—”

“ _Augh_!”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword:  
>  Every trolley system I’ve ever been on has had free fare. Let’s hope, since it’s clearly one of the few ways the dead get around, that it also has free fare.   
> I do have a headcanon that the clothes they wear in the movie are what they were buried in (sans Héctor). That’s what they show up to the Land of the Dead in, and since most people—that I knew—were buried in their best/favorite clothes, why wouldn’t they wear them?
> 
> Also, the dress Imelda wears on her date is like the dress from the opening of the movie! The one with the collar and the short sleeves; Lloronala did amazing art of her in her opening dress which got me thinking. I made it gray because gray also goes well with purple and red which is in her husband’s color scheme and also, I like gray, it’s a great color and makes people’s eyes look nice, thank you for coming to my TED Talk—
> 
> Art link: http://lloronala.tumblr.com/post/172320005383/sketched-this-a-while-back-but-i-really-havent


	14. Fools in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, are there any other kind of lovers?

The streets near the Land of the Dead’s lowest levels were hardly worth walking on.

Past the somberly lit cathedrals, there wasn’t much to see. Long abandoned, the derelict ruins of ancient Mesoamerican neighborhoods sprawled either side of the uneven, downward sloping paths; burnt skeletons of houses, crumbling tezontle and jagged shards of cantera, the powdered ashes of adobe. The ghostly remains were faded relics, an eternal reminder that even in this place, time was finite. Only those whose names lived on—whether gloried, or in infamy—were remembered; the rest were fated to drift closer and closer to the watery depths beneath the city until, with one final burst of golden energy, their memories were forgotten.

The few roads that weren’t entirely gone were dilapidated beyond repair, slowly crumbling piece by piece. Insect _alebrijes_ made their nests in the osteoporotic stone walls, their daub and straw structures jutting through the largest gaps. The uneven stone paths were eroded to clay and dust in some places, missing entirely in others; gaping holes were spanned with thin planks that groaned with the slightest weight. These temporary—and wholly unreliable—bridges never lasted long, hastily repaired with bent nails until they were finally more metal than wood.

Even the trolleys didn’t come this far anymore. The old tracks remained, rusted with exposure and disuse until the once-gleaming metal was flaked with reddish black. Large stretches of track were missing, ripped from the ground by desperate individuals with debts to pay and nothing to lose. The wires stretched low over the lanes until, snapped by the weight of birds and animals, they dangled loose between rotting frames.

The few streetlights lining the empty roads were broken more often than not, and had been for as long as anyone could remember. The outer casings of the lowest ones were shattered in an attempt to reach the precious metal within the bulbs, shards of heavy-duty glass lying forgotten in the shallow gutters.

It didn’t matter if they worked or not; the city workers weren’t in any hurry to fix the remains of an empty neighborhood. The shadows of the pulsing city kept the secluded lanes in a state of perpetual gloom; the only visible lights were from the docks below. Cookstoves, open fires, lanterns, battery-operated flashlights, even strings of tealights reflected off the rippling waters, offering a glow that seemed welcoming when faced with the surrounding darkness.

The deserted structures, the broken adobe, the encroaching shadows: all were part of a strange limbo that seemed to neatly separate the worlds of the remembered and forgotten. No one ever contrived to remain in-between for long. There was only up, or down—the glowing warmth of the city, or the cool twilight of the shanties. Anyone who lingered voluntarily, who ignored the blatant dangers of the empty roads, who reveled in the eerie lack of noise… well, they were clearly up to no good.

For the first time in over fifty years, Héctor stuck out like a sore thumb.

Dancing across the broad, flat summit of one of the countless pyramids rising from the dark waters, he weaved like a drunkard to the haphazard tune spilling from his lips. He was helpless to the winding melody, an amalgamation of old songs and unfinished choruses, the result of his overflowing heart. His music was alone in the murky midnight, his soft hum vibrating against his neck vertebrae, tickling his teeth.

He leaped onto the scaffolding that wound down the pyramid’s great steps, ribcage expanding as he inhaled the stale waterside scent: woodsmoke and moldy paper, algae and stagnation. The odor did little to dampen his spirits; he twirled down towards the lowest steps, voice rising into wordless la-di-das.

A fine mist wrapped around him as he descended, rising from the humid waters; beyond the stone gates surrounding Shantytown, the shapeless forms of lopsided buildings rose up to meet the barely-visible bridges spanning the heavens. The graffiti seemed colorless in the shadow, the orange wings of _Los Olvidados_ dulled by the fog as it rolled in from whatever lay elsewhere, beyond the horizon. It spread low over littered concrete and ancient limestone alike, reaching with smoke tendrils up towards the lights of the Land above.

A drizzle fell on the shoulders of his newly repaired vest, dampening his hat until the straw brim sagged beneath the growing weight. The air sharpened, the odor of wet cloth and softened wood cutting through the dismal miasma. The boards darkened beneath him, shifting with muted creaks as his heels pressed into the meat of the planks. As dreary as it was, no amount of bad weather could bog him down now; why should he care about clouds, when all the stars he needed danced behind his closed lids?

He followed the scaffolding by muscle memory—not that he had muscles to rely on, these days. Years of trudging up and down the old pyramids were finally put to good use; he was unable to keep his eyes open as he waltzed back to the only home he’d known for decades. A weightlessness encompassed his bones until he felt as light as a feather, as steam, as a _cempasúchil_ petal. The thin walls he’d built to keep back the hurt, cracking more with each passing _Día de Muertos_ , seemed to be obliterated completely; emotion welled in his chest, filling him until he was floating, buoyed by the feelings he’d nearly forgotten existed.

It all felt so raw, so _new_ , as if he were experiencing them for the first time all over again. A single embrace: something so innocent, so chaste, and yet it brought forth a bubbling wellspring that he just couldn’t contain. He hadn’t felt this… this… _alive_ since he was a boy, patched shoes barely clinging to a rickety old trellis, hanging dazed from a window in the wake of his first kiss. It was all he could do to keep himself under control and not burst out laughing, or screaming, howling at the moon like a crazed fool.

_Loco de amor_.

A wild grin twisted the corners of his mouth before he could stop it, the pliable bones of his skull stretching to their limits. The old women of Santa Cecelia had their own terms for it, those all-encompassing feelings; he heard them directed at him, at all the young suitors, plenty of times. _Infatuated_ , they tutted to themselves, faces hidden behind fans as they stood grouped together in front of the church. Mamás, tías, even the widows. _Tch, ay. Puppy love,_ they whispered, shaking their heads. _Dios ayudanos._

_Amor._ He couldn’t contain it any longer; tugging down his hat, he smushed his face against the crown with a muffled scream of joy. ¡ _Amor_! ¡ _Amor, amor, **amor**_! His entire being thrummed with the word from head to toe, racing through every bone until it was impossible to stand still any longer. Jamming the wet hat on his newly washed hair, he raced down the last third of the scaffolding in a dead sprint. The wood lurched beneath his bare feet, swaying precariously on its foundations with the movement.  

There was a narrow staircase at the bottom of the pyramid, the kind that was far easier to go down than up. Ignoring it completely—not that he’d ever paid much attention to it before now—he threw himself over the ledge in a clumsy swan dive. His body crashed on the rocks below, scattering over the cracked stone. He laughed despite the uncomfortable feeling of the forced separation, kicking his dislocated foot to keep his femur from skidding straight into the water.

He pulled himself back together, bones scratching against the rock as they shot back towards his skull. The strength of the pull was enough to nearly bowl him over a second time, sending him stumbling with the added force; it was enough to pull him out of his lovesick reverie, staring down at his newly reformed hands in shock. Of course there was a distinct difference between willing and unwilling separation, and it had been quite a while since he’d tested the connection holding his bones together. He knew that he was being remembered, but he’d never expected… not so quickly… not so _strongly…._

“ _Oye_ , look!” A whistle cut through the fog, which seemed to be melting as the rain picked up. “Héctor’s back!”

“Cousin Héctor!”

“¿ _Qué onda, primo?_ ”

Still gazing at his hand, he barely remembered to raise his hat in greeting at he passed the first row of shanties. His feet fought for purchase on the rain-slicked slime of the lower docks, toes digging in the muck staining the boards after one too many floodwaters. He could hardly pay attention to the cheers and catcalls coming from open windows, front porches, even the adjacent docks.  

The sights and sounds of Shantytown blurred around him as he wandered along, nearly in a daze as he focused on his thoughts. Sounds were thrown his way, but he only caught the odd word, nodding absently in response no matter what the question might have been. He spotted a few new faces in the regular crowd, only because they stood out against the bleak backdrop: their faces too bright, their clothes too new, their expressions too unfamiliar. It never registered that now he resembled _them_ more than he did his own beloved _familia._

He raised his face to the rain as he strolled, lost in the thoughts swirling around his mind. Raindrops splashed the inside of his skull through his sockets, forcing him to wince and blink rapidly as they spilled around his eyes like tears. He opened his mouth, catching them as they dripped down his face; the rain tasted the way he remembered, clean and pure against the muggy air.

How long had it been since he’d tasted it, or even just taken pleasure in walking through it? Not since he was a boy, surely—the familiar freshness brought memories of home, of late spring, the forest, boyhood. Standing in mud, breathing in pine sap and clover and Imelda, drinking in the sight of water sparkling on the tips of her lashes.

_Imelda._

The city spires wavered like the edges of a dream in his vision, their far-off hues glowing brightly despite the rain. Blue and pink, paling as they bled together, a watercolor portrait suspended against the dark sky. Paradise, but then again…. It always did look like an unobtainable heaven from down here in the outer darkness; like the rich man, anyone unlucky enough to be on the wrong side of the gap had no choice but to gaze up at what they couldn’t have. Tonight it was even more of an Eden for _she_ was there, hidden somewhere in the glittering lights.

_Mi ángel, mi musa, mi… mi amor._

His phantom heart thumped painfully against his ribs, reaching through the mist to the _zapatería_ and its beautiful owner. It ached for her, yearned, _pined_ in ways he’d tried his hardest to stop feeling after that final, dreadful encounter—she’d cursed him so loudly that her neighbors had called the law to them both, his feet kicking up dust and her snarls ringing in his ears all the way back to Shantytown.

He pushed the memories away, turning from them with closed eyes; that was all in the past now, and they’d agreed to leave the past as it was. Those memories were painful, and would only spread more doubt in his mind, doubt that wouldn’t benefit anyone. And besides, he’d already forgiven her for that, for _everything_. Maybe he’d deserved it, if for nothing more than trying to force himself on her after she’d clearly told him to leave her, and her family, alone.  

“ _Muchacho_!” Tía Kate’s scowling voice rang in his ear, a well-aimed sock slapping wetly against his skull before wrapping around the gap where his nose used to be. “¡ _Aguas_!” she rebuked sharply, peering over the edge of a half-filled clothesline; even with only one arm, she managed to put her hands on her hips while searing him to the bone—and further—with a matronly glare. “One would think you’re wet enough!” she added, adjusting the upturned laundry basket keeping most of the rain off the white braid coiled around her head.

“Eh?” He glanced down, jumping in alarm when he realized he’d been two steps away from plunging off the dock and into the water already beginning to churn with the rain. Backing away, he peeled the sock from his skull and handed it over the clothesline along with a sheepish grin. “ _Gracias_ , Tía,” he simpered, raising his sopping hat with cordial affection. She yanked the garment from his hand, shaking her head as she slapped it into an old washbasin filled with the rest of the soaked laundry.

“Get your head out of the clouds, boy,” she snapped, sizing him up with world-weary eyes before jerking her head towards the bungalow in the distance. “Go home before you catch cold.” He nodded, backing off before she found something else to lecture about. He was nearly back to the end of the docks before he heard her again, muttering angrily to the ripped coat she was trying to yank one handed off the line. “— those damned musicians, mooning about like lovelorn children.”

_Lovelorn_? He nearly slipped off the docks again, checking himself before glancing over his shoulder hastily to make sure no one had seen. Was he truly that lovesick already?

 Without thinking, the soft tune he’d been humming earlier came back to him, notes dancing behind his eyes as he sang to himself. His accompaniment spilled from glassless windows, porches made of driftwood and tin—the tinny whine of a phonograph, the wheeze of a defective radio, the busted bass of an old boombox long past its prime. Even the tired warbling of unbroken spirits, singing of love and hope in a place that knew more about despair and loss.  

The world— _his_ world—was filled to the brim with music, and for once he was glad of it.

* * *

How on earth could bones become numb? It just wasn’t _fair_!

 

Héctor shivered where he stood, rubbing his hands together fretfully to create some semblance of warmth. The rain had slacked off, and in its place an icy breeze rattled the shanties and their tenants. At least he could be grateful Chicharrón had built his bungalow on a lower level; the wind was twice as bad on the upper docks, the buildings swaying precariously with nothing but studs and a prayer holding them to the rotten, ruined bridges overhead.

He cringed at the sound of his bony palms, scraping together with a jarring series of clacks as he tried to rub life back into them. The sound was horrendous, but he didn’t have any better ideas. It seemed to help somewhat; maybe it was just his mind playing tricks, since there was no way he could be creating any kind of friction with his hands the way they were now. But there was no denying that feeling was seeping back into his fingers, little pinpricks of pain radiating down his knuckles.   

Another blast of cold air shook the walls, whistling through the cracks and howling just outside the door. The tin roof over his head rumbled with a sound like thunder, the looser shingles clattering as they slammed against each other. March winds weren’t new by any means, but after the unseasonal rain shower the dampness only made everything even colder. It didn’t seem to matter whether he stood outside or in—either way, the wind literally ran right through him.

Héctor shivered harder, pulling the blanket he’d found closer around his naked form. He would have rather been dressed _and_ covered against the wind, instead of feeling like he was wrapped in some kind of motheaten death shroud. But that couldn’t be helped now; the laundry must be done while the cistern was full of clean rainwater, and the sun was shining brightly enough to dry his clothes.

There hadn’t been enough time at Ceci’s to scrub the dirt stains from his newly-patched clothes. But he meant to court Imelda proper, and that meant he couldn’t always show up in stale clothing, no matter how nicely they looked. His wife deserved a man that could look his best no matter what, and that was exactly what she was going to get. How could he ever make a good impression on her when he was covered head to toe in Shantytown dust? He might have gotten a good scrubbing and a haircut, but that meant nothing if his clothes weren’t just as clean, if not cleaner.

He knew that hot water was the first essential for clean clothes, but he was also used to living in Shantytown. Shanties burned too easily; it was dangerous to even light a match in winds like this, much less build a fire just to heat up water for laundry. He did, however, have the other two necessities: soap, and something to wash his clothes _in_.

Chicharrón’s habit of never letting go of anything—ever—had been a double-edged sword, but Héctor had to admit that it did come in handy. He’d found the washtub shoved beneath a stack of tarp, still mostly intact and with only one big hole that he patched, outside and in, with a roll of waterproofing tape usually reserved for broken bones. Once filled, he’d dragged it into the sun with the hopes that the water might warm even with the wind rippling its crystal-clear surface. Unfortunately, he’d wished in vain; the water burned with an icy chill even after sitting hours in direct sunlight.

Soap had been harder to locate, but he’d finally struck gold in an ancient chest of drawers pushed against the bungalow’s sagging northern wall. In the topmost drawer, hidden in a corner behind old magazines and a broken music box, he’d found a tiny pat of soap wrapped in a sheet of delicate tissue. It was lumpy and half-smashed, the pale surface yellowed with age and dotted with beads of rust-colored oil. But the scent—soft, powdery, slightly floral— _that_ was what he was after.  

The first whiff brought on a nearly-forgotten memory, one that came on so fast he had no way of bracing for it. He’d been young, a new father, playing his guitar for tips in the plaza day after day until he had just enough to get a pale, pretty bar of store-boughten soap. He’d meant it for Imelda, something soft and sweet for her bath, to soothe the pains and soreness that lingered after birth. But Imelda had used it on Coco instead, carefully smoothing the fragrant bubbles over her fragile skin.

Imelda’s grateful smile, her soft hum as she bent over the perfumed steam of the tiny basin, holding his little girl close, the scent of milk and rosy soap and something else, something raw that lingered from her newness—

The heartache of those memories left him bent over the washtub, choked with emotion and loneliness and _hurt_. All those were too familiar, but now there was also something else, something harsh and angry in his chest that railed against the injustice of it all, the rage that _he_ was forced to exist in a shadowy half-life with only memories while his killer—his _friend—_ had lived on for decades in his stead.

He clutched the sides of the washtub, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he stared down into the rippling water. An angry mask stared back, jaw clenched and eyes burning with indignation. His skull burned with a phantom flush, and he knew that if he’d been alive his cheeks would be mottled, nostrils flaring in rhythm with the harsh pants forcing their way out of his heaving chest. The sight left a sick taste in the back of his mouth; he thrust both hands into the frigid water, breaking up the image until nothing was left but dingy suds and wet cloth.

He took the soap in hand and began to work the rich lather into the deep purple fabric of his shirt-turned-vest. It didn’t matter anyway, he decided as he scrubbed at a dark stain on the collar. He could care less if anyone recognized him as the true songwriter or not; he didn’t even care if Ernesto got everything that was coming to him. Royalties, revenge—it didn’t change anything that had already happened. Neither Ernesto’s conviction nor any amount of money would put him on that train back to Santa Cecelia, not now.

Nothing would ever change the past; he’d come to grips with that long ago. What mattered now, he realized, was what would happen. Or, he amended as he lifted the vest from the tub, what _might_ happen. All he’d ever wanted was his family, his girls, and now they were finally within reach. He might never be able to cross the bridge, not without a photo, but Coco would come to him when her time came.

_Time_ , that was the key word: he had time now, to wait and hope and wonder. He’d spent decades waiting; what did a few more years matter, when he knew that she was happy and loved and well cared for? He would gladly wait, and then when the time came he’d give her the biggest hug for as long as she’d let him. And Imelda, well….

His gaze rose to the sky, habitually seeking out the sparkling city, unobscured by fog. He absently wrung the water out of his vest with all his strength, water splashing from the tub to sprinkle the hem of his makeshift shroud. Spreading the nearly-black cloth flat, he left it to dry in the sun and hoped that it was passably clean; he only had soap enough for one washing.

Imelda had already come to him, in her own roundabout fashion. He didn’t begrudge her for her hesitancy, though, or any reservations she had. After all, the divide between them was clear: while he had kept her memory locked in his heart for a century, she’d spent nearly as long trying to forget. _I wanted to forget you_ —those harsh words, and the crushed tone she’d said them in, had heard far worse than anything she’d ever thrown at him.

A hundred years of heartbreak wasn’t going to be changed in a matter of weeks, or even months. She deserved time to reacclimate herself to the idea of him, time to remember how they meshed, how they fit together as friends, confidants, spouses… lovers. For that, he’d gladly give her all the time he could spare, and then some, just as long as it meant he could be at her side. After all, she was his wife: his lovely, precious, _gorgeous_ wife.

He sighed blissfully, nearly sliding face first into the water as he propped himself up on the tub’s rim. All these years, all this time, and she still managed to blindside him with her stunning beauty. That matronly, dignified gray dress, the dusky ribbon in her dark hair, the cute little black boots with their silver buttonhooks and polished toes—of course, she could have worn nothing more than a tow sack and still been the most wonderful woman to ever walk the earth, living _or_ dead.

It was still hard for him to believe that she was actually _interested_ in entertaining his foolish, desperate attempts at a second courtship. He wasn’t sure how much of it he even deserved, if any, but he wasn’t the type of man to look a gift horse in the mouth. If she honestly meant to indulge his whims, he’d romance her the only way he knew how. He was confident in _that_ , at least; it had worked once already.  

He’d known from the beginning that it couldn’t be a pain-free outing, not the first time. Too much was unsaid between them, too much to still discuss. Doubt and guilt had clouded the road ahead, and the weight of a hundred years’ emotion kept them rooted to the spot. As painful as the resulting conversation was, when they laid their burdens in the open they were able to shoulder them as a team; only then were they able to take their first steps towards a future together.

However, _knowing_ that it had to happen didn’t mean he had looked forward to it. He couldn’t stop himself from trying to shield her; in this place he might have been her husband in name only, but the innate desire to protect her still burned brightly in his heart. It had torn him apart to see the pain in her eyes, the tight twist of her smile as she tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, that it didn’t hurt as badly as he knew it did.

It had taken all he had to keep his hands to himself, to stay glued to the park bench. His instinctive reaction was to touch her, to comfort her somehow; he wanted nothing more than to kiss the tears from her eyes and beg for forgiveness each time his words cut her to the quick. He knew—had known, had always known—that she was strong, that she didn’t need anyone to guard her against the world. She could hold her own, but that didn’t mean she should _have_ to.

He wondered what she might have done, if he’d been unable to refuse the impulse. The only thing stopping him was a firm voice in the back of his mind, reminding him always that he mustn’t touch. His ears still rang with the sound of her choked, angry voice as she passed him in the alley. _Just leave me alone_. _Don’t touch me._

_Please._

It was mindboggling, how much could change in the three short weeks since that encounter. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. His entire life had been upended on _Día de Muertos_ ; it had taken all winter for him to get back on his feet after that lifechanging tumble, ready to start fresh. His entire world, a century of assumptions and misunderstandings, had been destroyed and rebuilt in the span of five months. Three weeks was a mere drop in the bucket of his afterlife.

Maybe she wouldn’t mind being touched now, but he still felt the need to keep contact to a minimum. Oh, she could touch him—he had no qualms with that. She had, all day in  
fact! His forehead still tingled at the thought of her midnight blessing, a  
moonlit kiss with the promise that he could have the chance he craved. And she’d held his hand yesterday because she wanted to, not because it was necessary or even required. She hadn’t even complained when he slipped, forgetting himself and putting his hands on her shoulders in his hurry to distract her on the trolley.

And, of course— He smiled at his sopping trousers, heart fluttering uncontrollably in the empty gap of his torso. She, Imelda Rivera, had hugged _him_! Even more than that: she’d held him, just for a moment, and let him hold her in return. From the way her body had relaxed into his, once he’d managed to get over his shock and wind his arms around her, it was clear that she’d even… _wanted_ it.

The familiarity of it had shocked him more than the act itself. His bones still thrummed with the thought of her arms around his ribcage, her soft breath tickling his sternum as she rested her head on his chest. It was a miracle that he’d managed to keep his knocking knees where they belonged, instead of slipping and letting the both of them clatter apart on the sidewalk. He knew that he would have been content to stay there forever, relishing the touch of her slender frame, and not felt the need to ask for anything beyond her favor. He’d been given more than his share already, and yet?

_I had a nice time tonight._

Her quiet cadence was the same, the way it used to be back when… back when they knew each other. Not shy or bashful, but _reserved_. It betrayed her upbringing, the propriety that colored their lives back before they belonged to each other, the modesties that—in her mind, at least—stood between them once more. It was the voice of someone too aware of themselves, of what they wanted, and of the troubles that might arise by taking it.

A nice time, so much nicer when she was looking at him like that, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Her face was so much lovelier when she let her emotions show, unhidden behind the guise of a stern matron. She should’ve known already that there was no need to waste time by asking, no reason to hide behind false modesty or hidden intentions. He would have been more than happy to do anything, even bend over backwards, to make her wishes a reality.

Maybe she did know. Maybe she knew all along, maybe that’s why she asked with her eyes instead of her words. And maybe she saw the answer already on his face, assured enough that her hands were steady on his chest, leaning on him, leaning up to him, lashes sliding to hide those lovely, imploring eyes—

¡ _Ay, mi amor_! The wind did little to stop the heat in his face, a prickling fire in his cheekbones. He pressed the wet cloth of his trousers to his face, breathing in the scent of water and soap and something faintly stale, despite his best efforts. The water dripped down into his ribcage, wicking into the old blanket until he felt little circles of ice against his bones. Sighing, he spread the pinstripes out to greet the sun as well before bundling himself into a corner to wait.

Maybe it was better that they’d been interrupted, after all. He was starting to have serious doubts about the limits of his self-restraint.

* * *

_Alebrijes can sense fear, can’t they? Or was that bears? Dios mío, what if it’s part bear?_

Héctor gulped, pressing against the main gate of the Rivera family courtyard; the iron bars bit into his ribs through his vest, holding the brunt of his weight as he leaned away from the giant alebrije lounging on the main walk. The _zapatería_ was less than fifty paces away, but to get there he had no choice but to walk past this amalgamation of man-eaters.  

Why was luck always against him? What unfortunate ancestor had gotten the family name cursed with ill-favored fortune? Every time he thought life was looking up, something like _this_ happened. Not that he had a problem with _alebrijes_ , even big ones; they were spirit guides, after all, and the bonds they held with their humans ran deeper than those of mere pets. But this wasn’t just an _alebrije_ , this was Imelda’s _alebrije_. He remembered the roar that shook the cenote until water rained from the rocks above, the glistening fangs, the big… _sharp_ claws—  

To reach the shoe shop, he’d have to bypass the creature one way or the other. He clenched the bars in his fingers, taking deep, slow breaths as he wracked his brain for some kind of plan. Calling for help was out of the question; the last thing he wanted was to humiliate himself, and Imelda by proxy. If he couldn’t hold his own against a sunbathing _alebrije_ , what kind of use was he as a husband?

Running was the next viable option, but he quickly discarded that too. Experience had taught him that running from things—be it man or beast—usually entailed a chase. He wasn’t the best sprinter by any means, and he had no doubts that if it pounced it would catch him within seconds. The only other option was to face it head-on, and hope that he could somehow see an attack coming and devise some way to protect himself from it. Animals were subdued by bravery, right?

Forcing himself to let go of the bars, he took a tentative step forward and felt his way onto the cobbled footpath, unwilling to look away from the _alebrije_ ; they were mysterious creatures, and for all he knew this one could move faster than the speed of sound. He froze when his bare foot clacked loudly against stone, too loud to be unnoticed. His heart sank into his stomach as the massive head rose, yellow eyes blinking curiously before narrowing as it stared him down.

“Ahaha….” The sound stuck in his throat, choked with trepidation. “Ah—um— _ahem_ , hi.” He grinned nervously, quaking under the steady gaze of the enormous beast. “You remember me, right? Héctor? I—uh—I caught a nice view of the city from your tail not long ago… yeah?”

The jaguar didn’t reply, neither growl nor mewl escaping the wide, split mouth. Its whiskers flared, nose twitching as it sniffed the air before settling, sphinxlike, onto its front paws. It seemed content to just watch him, the way a housecat watches an insect crawling just out of reach. He was nothing more than a cricket: insignificant, dispensable… easily caught.

“Y-y-you remember me, don’t you?” he stammered, trying to placate the _alebrije_ with as calm a tone as he could muster. “Y-y-y-you’re a good kitty, a nice kitty, a _sweet_ kitty,” he continued, as if he could will it into submission with his voice alone. Another slow step and the beast’s ears swiveled towards him, dwarfed beneath huge, curling horns. Its eyes dilated, tail swishing slowly as it considered him.

“I’m just going to walk by now, no trouble.” He cleared his throat again, taking another three steps in quick succession. The faster he walked, the faster it would be over. Fast walking wasn’t running, after all. It wasn’t even jogging.

Before he could take another step, his toes caught a jagged gap in the path; his weaker, healing leg buckled under the added weight and he went stumbling, nearly trodding on one of the _alebrije’s_ massive paws. He caught himself just before he hit the ground, gasping as he came eye-to-nose with the creature. He could feel the hot breath on his skull, the fur rippling as its muscles tensed.

What little bravado he had left him, his limbs jellified when face to face with the creature. Those paws were so _large_ , the claws had to be the length of his forearm, if not longer. They’d be easily able to rend through flesh… or _bone_. If it decided to strike, he would have no forewarning, and no way to dodge the blow. His eyes met the feline’s and he trembled, woozy with fear.  

The cat blinked once, slowly, and before he could react the head bent towards him. He let out an unmanly squeak of terror, cowering away from the blow that was sure to come, the fangs that could crush his skull to pieces. He waited, breath held, eyes scrunched tight—and promptly opened them again as hot air blew the bangs from his face.

“Huh?” The cat sniffed him, paused, and then huffed hard enough to blow the hat from his head. It regarded him, whiskers twitching, tilting its head to get the best view of him as it loomed. The wings unfurled slowly, feathers ruffling to stir the dust on either side of the walkway. “See?” he managed weakly. “I knew you’d remember me.” Another slow blink was his answer, the dark pupils holding him in their depths.

Without thinking, he reached up towards the fibral whiskers, the shortest ones filament thin yet still longer than his entire arm. They flinched from his fingers, the wide cheek twitching as they flattened towards its neck. A deep sound vibrated the air and, fearing it to be a growl, he recoiled. However, the giant head moved to bump against his arm, then his torso, nearly bowling him over backwards as it rubbed the length of its jaw against his vest. The low sound continued to rattle the ground under his feet, a rhythmic hum that he finally recognized to be a purr.

“Well,” he breathed, awestruck as the _alebrije_ repeated the motion forcefully. He took the initiative—the thinly-veiled demand, rather—and rubbed his hand over the exposed cheek before burying his fingers in the soft fur beneath its chin. He rubbed, then scratched, first with one hand and then both as a shower of multicolored fur floated in the air around him.

“Heh,” he chuckled, feeling the purr vibrating his entire body from the arms down. “You’re nothing more than an overgrown housecat, aren’t you? Good kitty, what a good kitty cat—” The _alebrije_ seemed to expect this kind of talk, eyes closing lazily as it occasionally continued to bump into him with the entirety of its forehead, in what was clearly some kind of affectionate gesture.

After a moment it turned, flopping onto its back hard enough that the _zapatería_ windows rattled in their panes. It stretched, offering an open invitation to its broad stomach, and looked at him expectantly. He obliged, stroking as far down its neck as he could without having to crawl on top of it. The paws he’d feared moments ago rose to knead the air, claws—he’d not underestimated their length after all—glinting in the sun.

“Good kitty,” he murmured, the words still flowing unbidden from his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d petted anything with fur; even Miguel’s _pelón_ dog wasn’t soft and fluffy like this _alebrije_. “Good girl, sweet girl, sweet kitty—”

“Pepita is a _cat._ ” He nearly leapt out of his trousers at the unexpected voice, fisting two handfuls of orange belly fur. The purring, steady as ever, had filled his head enough to drown out the sound of any approaching feet. He turned, guilty, hands thrust behind his back. “She is a cat,” Imelda repeated sharply. “ _Not_ a… ‘kitty’.”

“Oh.” His heart quickened at the sight of her standing within reach, her arms crossed beneath a handwoven shawl. He moved to embrace her, stopping only when he saw her attention wasn’t even directed at him any longer. She was looking at her _alebrije_ —Pepita, what a cute name for something so giant—and shaking her head in clear disapproval.

“Aren’t you ashamed?” she fussed, staring down the large cat as it rolled back onto its stomach. Pepita regarded her coolly, digging little grooves in the earth as she continued to knead. Trilling, she turned back to Héctor and, in one fell swoop, licked him from calves to scalp. He gasped at the sandpapery tongue, warm and scratchy; it lifted him off his feet, knocking the wig sideways on his skull. “Clearly not.”

“Good kitty,” he cooed, ignoring Imelda’s huff as he buried his face in the thick, silky smooth fur on Pepita’s chest. “You tell your mamá: we’re the best of friends, right?” His voice was muffled, mouth full of downy underfur. “I can call you whatever I like, can’t I? Kitty, kitty, kitty.” The loud purring was answer enough for him. _I could get used to this,_ he thought absently, a fondness already growing for the amiable _alebrije. Maybe I can fly on her back proper, next time._

“Do you plan on coming inside sometime today, or are you just going to stay out here with the cat?” Imelda snapped, hands on her hips. A small part of him rejoiced at her brusque tone; it was so much easier for him if she treated him the same way she treated everyone else—clipped, concise, with no tiptoeing or overcoddling. It gave him free reign to be himself, to match her brevity with his natural lightheartedness. He obediently untangled himself from Pepita’s fur, stroking her one last time before regarding his wife.

“Not jealous of your own cat, are you?” he couldn’t help but tease. She tensed, eyes widening, before tightening her jaw with a huff reminiscent of her spirit guide. He couldn’t hide his grin at the sight; something in the way she held her mouth when he teased her always managed to make him smile. Maybe it annoyed her, but at the same time she clearly enjoyed being the center of his attentions. They both knew it to be true, even if she would never admit to it.

“Of course not!” Pepita’s twitching tail buffeted her dress, showing a flash of white underskirts; she stepped away, snatching the fabric out of reach. “I don’t know _how_ you come up with your crazy notions.” _Because you’re the one to make me crazy, mi amor._

“Don’t worry,” he added, unable to stop himself. “I’ll make sure to pet you first next time.”

“Stop talking nonsense!” Her eyes blazed at him, daring him to try something fresh; it did little to deter his thoughts from going on a tangent. He’d been more frightened of the purring jaguar at his side than he’d ever been of that fiery gaze, even before they were married. Feeling bold, he reached out and playfully stroked over the silver stripes at her crown.

Whether it was the sun, the force holding her together, or something else entirely, her hair was warm. He lingered much longer than he meant to, fingering the smooth, soft strands and careful to keep from tugging them out of her impeccable twist. _So much for keeping your hands to yourself,_ he scolded mentally, but allowed himself a reprieve when she didn’t immediately brandish her shoe.  

The touch softened her scowl, annoyance melting as she unwittingly leaned into the weight of his hand. The moment stretched, tightening between them as he waited for her to speak, to brush him off and scold him for being so forward in his advances. But she did neither, instead just staring at his neckerchief with an indefinable expression stuck somewhere between enjoyment and confusion.

“Well?” She raised her eyes to his, voice soft. It had been much easier to lock eyes with Pepita; hers filled him to the brim, heart hammering violently against his ribcage. Had he not been able to see the fingerbones resting demurely on her dark hair he might have been convinced of a fleshy body, of actual organs that were, right now, twisting knots in his gut.

As they watched each other, he became painfully aware of a tension between them, hesitant put palpable. He stiffened, unwilling to look away even as thoughts of Sunday evening filled his mind. What would she do if he just kissed her right now, in broad daylight, in the middle of the yard? Would she even stop him if he pulled her close, tracing the ferns on her cheekbones with his fingertips? She was willing enough two days ago, but now?

Almost as if she read his mind, her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth and back. Mouth dry, he tried to swallow and felt each bone as his vertebrae slid clunkily. Her lips parted and he barely stopped himself from leaning in, hoping that he didn’t look too eager. A car door slammed and they both jumped, his hand flying guiltily back to his side as she averted her eyes with a cough.

“Don’t just _stand_ there,” she said, her voice oddly breathless. She turned, suddenly busy with smoothing the leather apron at her waist. “It’s not like I’m not busy, and it’s chilly out here. There’s plenty enough to do without standing around like a couple of fools.” He dipped, picking his hat off the ground and shaking the worst of the fur and dust from its floppy brim. Pepita batted at the strands as they fell, tail swishing before she walked off to flop in the house’s shade.

“Lead the way,” he croaked, trying to think of something else to say, something witty that might capture the earlier mood. She spun on her heel before he could come up with a good joke, stalking to the front of the _zapatería_ with shoulders thrown back and hands clenched at her sides. Even from the back, he could see that nervous energy, not anger, guided her actions. He swallowed, more than a little nervous himself, and hurried up the walk after her.

“We’ll be at the table, not the shop,” she informed him tersely, talking over her shoulder without breaking her stride. “We’re working on a larger order right now. The last thing I need is for them to be distracted.” He wasn’t sure if she meant _with you_ or _by you_ ; either one was damning enough. He didn’t bother trying to argue, following meekly as they stepped through the darkened entrance.

The shop was a flurry of activity, more than he was used to seeing in the few short months he’d been visiting the family. Normally his presence was enough to pause, if not stop production, but today he was virtually ignored as the rest of the Riveras were lost amidst a sea of shoes. Imelda weaved through the makeshift workstations with practiced ease, shooting him a warning glance over her shoulder before rounding the curve of the staircase and disappearing through the archway on the opposite side of the room.

He hesitated—not from mischief, or disobedience, but to let his rapidly blinking eyes adjust to the fainter light. His nose filled with the warm, earthy scent of fresh leather that permeated the entire room, tempered by the acrid tang of rubber cement and the faintest metallic whiff of motor grease. Dust swirled in the corners, stirred by the breeze of skirts and aprons, illuminated in the open windows.

Whatever Imelda had told them on Sunday—if anything—he had clearly been expected today. There were no exclamations of surprise, no confused glances or outright gawking stares; in fact, the family was really too busy to even bother with him as they worked with a pace that was efficient, if not exactly neat. The twins acknowledged him first; they spared him a cursory nod, smiling absently in greeting as they sorted loose soles by the pairs and stacked them on the workbench.

“ _Hola_ , Papá Héctor!” Rosita called as she waved from a table in the corner, fingers wiggling around the handle of a stiff polishing brush. A stack of strange looking shoes sat stacked higher than her head; behind her was a wall of cardboard boxes, each bearing the Rivera logo along with notes about the size, owner, and model of the shoe written neatly by hand. Victoria didn’t glance away from her sewing machine, eyes narrowed in focus over the rims of her square glasses; her deft fingers guided two pieces of leather beneath the rapid-fire needle, stitching them together in a perfect line.

Julio was the only one to stop what he was doing, pale gaze cryptic over the thick bush of his mustache. They looked at each other with curious detachment; Héctor felt the need to say _something_ , but every greeting that ran through his mind felt too forced, or too sharp, or too harsh. He couldn’t help but think of what Imelda told him, in the park; this was the man who married his daughter, who shook the wedding altar with his trembling.

It was almost too bizarre, his mind trying in vain to wrap around the concept. It warped the image of Coco in his mind, turning her from familiar toddler into some vague woman shape, a faceless bride-to-be draped in white. He remained quiet, his eyes dropping to the shoe in Julio’s calm hands. It was another one of those strange designs, half of the sole hanging limp, unnailed from the rest.

“What kind of order is it?” he asked, just to break the silence.

“Bowling shoes,” Julio answered, turning the shoe carefully in his hands until it was sole up. He angled it for Héctor to see over the workbench. “A bowling league put in an order for fifteen pairs, all custom made. You see,” he continued, with the air of an enthused specialist, “the soles of bowling shoes are made to slip. The league asked us to customize them to slip only on one side, based on whether the wearer is righthanded or lefthanded.”

“Héctor!” Imelda reappeared in the archway, mouth pursed. “In here, please.” Her expression already accused him of wrongdoing, getting in the way while they were trying to do their job. She was right; with fifteen pairs of different shoes—or soles, at least—they didn’t need him hanging around and breathing over their shoulders.

The sewing machine stopped, a silver pair of scissors catching light from the window as Victoria snipped the leather free. She smoothed the ends flat, looking over her work in satisfaction before noticing that she was being observed. Her browbone slowly arched, waiting for him to say something, and he realized he was gaping. Apologetically he lifted his hat to her, jumping when he saw something of Imelda in the answering wry smile. He managed to address them all in the sweep of his arm, jamming the hat back on his head before practically running through the arch.

He’d never been past the workshop before, always standing patiently while they gave excuse for Imelda’s absence. He didn’t dare linger, although his curiosity was piqued by flashes of what he could see from the corner of his eye: a bookshelf and mirror jammed beneath the staircase, the sight of a sofa and lamp in another open room, a small arrangement of blossoms hanging from the upper railing.

He followed Imelda into a smallish dining room, where the odors of the workshop were replaced by something delicious; he stopped in his tracks, breathing deeply as the familiar aroma filled him from the inside out. He’d have recognized that scent anywhere: Imelda’s own special recipe for _caldo de pollo_ , simmering somewhere just out of sight. His mouth watered at the memory, sudden yearning tugging at a place behind his ribs. When was the last time he’d filled his belly with a hot, homecooked meal?  

The dining room was clearly the center point of family life outside the _zapatería_ , but from first glance it was hard to put his finger on just how he knew. The table took up the majority of the room, an odd assortment of chairs shoved at intervals around its four sides. There was a shelf in the corner that sagged under its weight of knickknacks, books, odds and ends that had no real home and were left to gather dust until needed. Someone had tacked a wire hanger onto the wall above the shelf, the kind that he’d seen before in offices; it was stuffed to the brim with loose papers and receipts.

One chair had been recently vacated, standing pushed against the wall. An account ledger was on the table, held open by a pencil and weighted at the corner with an antique bookkeeping machine. Imelda sat down before it, smoothing her skirts before pulling herself up to the table and closing the ledger. She placed it and the machine to the side, pointing wordlessly with her pencil to a chair across the table.  

Casting his eyes around the room, Héctor hung his hat on the backrest of the nearest chair. He adjusted his vest with both hands, looking ruefully at the chair she’d suggested—well, perhaps _ordered_ was a better word for it. He’d hoped to be a little closer to her than that. After all, he was more than a client, wasn’t he? He was walking a thin line as it was, but the leftover hope from Sunday, combined with her demeanor in the yard, filled him with a measure of confidence.

He decided to take a chance, playing the only game he knew he excelled at: loopholes. He took the chair she’d pointed out, but instead of sitting down he slid it from beneath the table and dragged it behind him, ignoring the squeal of wooden legs on tile.

“Héctor!” she admonished, leaning away as he shoved the chair on her right to the corner of the table. He wiggled his own chair into the space he made, thanking his lucky stars that he was blessed with naturally thin bones. He sat down, scrunching in the tiny gap so that his knee was pressed against her right hip. She glared, mouth working as she looked from him to the chair, across the table and back again.

“Are you ready to start?” he asked, pretending nothing had happened. He knew it was enough to bait her into a response, and he quietly congratulated himself when she geared up for a retort. A peculiar emotion flashed in her eyes, fingers drumming on the leather-bound face of the closed ledger.

“I meant for you to be over there,” she said coldly. He nearly laughed at the mental image of how she used to look when she used that tone, nostrils flared and brows furrowed over her nose. _Exasperated_ , that was the word for it.  

“But the light is better here,” he excused himself, angling so that the glow from the adjoining kitchen helped to illuminate the table. “I can see more easily this way.” She let out a low huff before scooting to the left, adjusting her chair so that there was a hand’s breadth between their bodies. “Now, can I see my boots?”

“Don’t be silly,” she quipped, drawing a pair of oval reading glasses from her apron pocket. She slipped them on, sliding them up with the edge of her thumb as she reached for a roll of papers held tight with a rubber band. “The designs will have to be stitched on before they’re assembled. You’re just here to look over the concepts.” She was all business as she eased off the band, flattening the thick sheets out as best she could.

“Oh… I thought—” His heart sank as he glanced over the papers in confusion; he’d been looking forward to seeing the boots themselves, to watch her create something from a few scraps of leather and a vision. He’d wanted to be able to envision them on his feet. _What does it matter?_ he thought irritably, chiding himself for his downheartedness. _Just enjoy the moment for what it is, idiot!_ He fell quiet, hands gripping his knees beneath the table.

“I just need to show me what you like best, out of these styles. I had a few ideas in mind, but of course I can’t put _everything_ I think up on a shoe. And they’re yours, after all.” She tapped the papers into a neat pile and slid the stack over to him. When he didn’t immediately take them she frowned, jerking her hands away and busying them in her apron. “Well, what’s the matter? Go on.”

“So you mean… you mean I can choose what they’ll look like, once they’re done?” He felt a bubble of eagerness, scooting closer the table and fingering the edges of the rough-hewn paper.

“No,” she snipped; although she didn’t repeat herself, he could still hear the imperative in her voice. _Don’t be silly._ “You can choose what elements you like, and then I’m going to make the final design. You won’t see it again until I’m through.” She paused, eyeing him thoughtfully over her frames. “I have something in mind already,” she admitted. “I just wanted—that is, if you have a _problem_ with it—”

“No, no problem!” he answered quickly, rocking his hips back and forth on the chair. “No problem at all. I trust you.”

“Well, go on then. Take a look.” She grabbed the pencil, rolling it between her fingers and tearing a scrap of paper from the back of her ledger to scribble notes on. “Let me know which ones you like. You don’t have to choose something on every page.”

Spreading the papers, he shuffled through them curiously. They were filled with penciled drawings, blocked off in ruler-precise squares; the designs themselves were sketched in a rough hand, unpracticed yet with an attention to detail that amazed him. He was no artist himself—the best he could accomplish was small doodles, often for children’s amusement—but anyone looking at the pages could see the amount of time and effort that went into each square.

“You… you made these?”

“Hmm? The designs? _Sí_.” Maybe she was only modest, but she seemed indifferent to her own talent. He could see that she didn’t think much of it; still, he couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Imelda, these are amazing!” He flipped through the pages again, soaking up the swirls, the geometric lines, the stars and suns, fleurs-de-lis, flowering vines and broad-leaved trees. “Look at these, ¡ _qué talento_! I didn’t know you could draw like this!” She looked taken aback, mouth falling open as his voice rose in admiration. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“I don’t—I didn’t—they’re just _lines_ ,” she stammered, both pleased and embarrassed by his praise. “I didn’t learn it anywhere. I just draw what I think about, things that I enjoy and—I don’t know,” she finished helplessly. “Just tell me which ones you like the best.”

“All of them.”

“Héctor! Choose!” She tapped the pages for emphasis. “There’s a system to this. If you want me to make all the choices for you, you can just—ugh, give them here.” She reached for the papers, scowling when he held them out of reach. “ _Héctor Rivera_ ,” she warned, voice low.

“No, I’ll choose,” he placated, holding them safe before smoothing out the crease he’d accidentally made on the topmost page. He shuffled through them again, admiring all of the drawings individually; she fidgeted in her seat, foot tapping a harsh staccato as he took his sweet time.  

He pretended not to notice her impatience, wanting to prolong the moment. The longer he took, the longer he had reason to stay in her home, at her side. The sunny room was pleasantly warm, the soup’s enticing aroma adding to the drowsy afternoon atmosphere that seemed to stretch, indefinite. The hum of activity from the other room couldn’t pierce the bubble that seemed to form around them, the only movement a lazy flick from his thumb as he perused the designs, flipping the pages like a book in his fist.

He finally settled on a square of densely packed ferns, reminded of the yellow leaves on her cheekbones. Everything from the thin stalks to the tiny veins painstakingly etched onto each leaf astounded him, drawn with a quiet, subdued patience that he didn’t possess.

“This one I like best.” He pointed them out, one finger tracing the curve of the fern around and around the square. If he wanted to think about her, be reminded of her, he’d just have to look down and see the stitched ferns smiling at up at him from his feet. “This, and… this one.” It was a wilder tangle of swirls, looping over and over again on each other in a pattern that seemed chaotic at first glance, but on closer inspection was startlingly methodical.

_That’s me, that’s the two of us. Together forever, on my boots. Maybe she could somehow combine the two, wild ferns growing everywhere—_ he wondered if she would catch the allusion, but if she noticed anything she said nothing about it. Instead, she seemed to wait for something else; when he went to hand the papers back, her browbone jumped.

“Only the two?” She made a face. “You can choose more than that.”

“These are….” _Perfect._ “What I like.” He grinned, heart thumping erratically behind his breastbone. “Everything else I’ll leave to you; you know what will look best.”  

“But—I mean, if you’re sure. They’re your boots,” she repeated, shrugging as she took the stack back from him and began curling them up again. He watched her keenly as she worked, rolling her pencil idly back and forth over a groove in the table.

The afternoon light caught the angles of her skull, darkening a thin shadow beneath her cheekbone while softening the curve of her chin. The leaves on her cheek glittered gold, the lilac petals a shimmering line above her sockets. Now that he had the gift of idle time, to just look at her, he could see that the lilac was outlined in a softer shade of green, like the tailfeathers of an exotic bird.   

Everything about her markings seemed orderly, elegant; even the intricate swirls on the crest of her forehead seemed as though they had a purpose. It looked as if she could have painted those markings on herself, while he’d just been splashed with a few buckets of leftover paint. He absently touched his chin, rubbing the spirals above his goatee.

“They’re filling back in, I see.”

“Huh?” She snapped the rubber band around the reformed roll, testing its strength with her thumb before propping against the bookkeeping machine.

“The colors?” Her eyes rose to his forehead, lingering as she searched for something in the faded marks. “You haven’t noticed?” So it was noticeable, then? His fingers rose self-consciously, touching the faint edges of the purple arrows, the yellow accents, the single green leaf.

“Really?” She nodded. “Oh… I guess I never thought about it.” He didn’t look at himself in mirrors often; they weren’t a staple in Shantytown, and he’d stopped noticing his own shabby reflection in storefronts or fountain basins long ago. He’d known his skull markings were fading, only because it was a commonplace occurrence among the Forgotten. Poor Chicharrón’s bright colors had been completely gone when he passed, drained along with the last of his energy.  

“Well, they are.” She tried to look at something besides him, eyes trailing restlessly over the lopsided shelving, his askew hat perched precariously on the chair, her own hands flat on the worn surface of the table. “You look like a half-finished watercolor painting.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not—no.” He smiled, resting his chin on one hand as he watched her struggle with her words. She’d always been cute when she was flustered; it was amazing that somehow so much had changed… and yet so little. Turning his mind back to his face, he resolved to look at himself in a mirror the first chance he got.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, the fact that the colors were returning. After all, his bones were healing, the ties holding them together were stronger: he was remembered now. It only made sense that the color would flood him along with the life that memories brought to his body. He may never have Ernesto’s white glow, or even Imelda’s pearly sheen, but he could always be _colorful_. The notion was strangely satisfying, and he ruminated on it with a dreamy smile.

“Héctor!” He blinked, startled, and realized that Imelda had been talking while he was off in his own thoughts. “Honestly,” she sighed. “What goes on in that head of yours? You’d try a saint’s patience, the way you get lost in the clouds.”

“Sorry, sorry!” he cringed. “I was just thinking about you, that’s all.” Her brows arched, and he hurried to correct himself. “Your bones, I mean.” They arched higher. “No, wait! Not like that, I mean—never mind.” _Change the subject, Héctor, change it quick—_ “A-anyway, it must have taken you a long time to draw all those,” he stammered, pointing to the rolled papers with a shaking finger. “They’re all so detailed.”

“I didn’t draw them all at once, if that’s what you’re asking.” She frowned, but let the matter drop. “I just did them when I had the time.” She took off her glasses, folding them carefully and  stowing them back in her apron pocket before smoothing the ruffled hair near her temples. “It didn’t interfere with my work, so don’t worry.” He wasn’t sure why he _would_ worry about something like that, unless she thought his statement was the result of a guilty conscience.

“Even so, that’s a lot of work for just one pair of boots,” he mused. “I can see why you said—” He stopped, mouth clamping shut as alarm bells rang in his mind. _For once in your life, Héctor Rivera, you better shut up!_ But it was too late; she’d heard him.

“Said what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what did I say?” Her eyes narrowed. “Go on, tell me.”

“I was just going to say….” He closed his eyes, trying to formulate some excuse and finding to his horror that he couldn’t think of anything. Cornered, he resolved himself to his fate and let the truth come out instead. “I can see why you said that… that someone could spend many hours thinking of the person they’re making them for.” Despite the cool, unchanging nature of bone he could still tell exactly when she blushed; right now she was red from head to toe, he wa sure of it.

“I didn’t mean _me_!” she hissed, rubbing her cheeks as though trying to banish the heat she felt there. “I just meant the children! Not me.”

“The children aren’t making me boots,” he pointed out. “You are.”

“I know that, but—”

“Boots for someone that… that you like?” Love was too much, at least right now. No matter what he felt, what he told himself internally, she still needed time.

“It’s only because you said you’d have blisters,” she sniffed, the words lacking bite. “And… besides, you need something covering your feet. As absentminded as you are, I’m surprised you haven’t lost a toe already.”

“Aww, Imelda! You care!” She rolled her eyes, turning away as he slid forward along the table. “You _do_ like me, after all.”

“What kind of—” She stopped short, seeing the mischievous twinkle in his smile. “Don’t tease,” she grumbled instead, glaring through her lashes.

“It’s not my fault. I can’t help that you’re so—”

“So _what_?” Her mouth twitched.

“So beautiful?” He deserved that second eye roll, grin widening at her annoyance. “Feisty, then.” That was true, even if she scoffed at the term. He leaned even closer, noting happily that she was too caught up in his spiel to bother putting more distance between them. He draped his arm over the back of her chair, dangerously close to having it around her shoulders proper. “So….”

“Yes?” He could feel the familiar pull of the same earlier tension, thick enough that he could have easily pressed into it, smothered in it. It was clear that she felt it too; the knot in his stomach reformed as he sat there, or maybe it had never left. Either way, the realization left him shaking in his seat. He wanted to stand up, to run… somewhere, he didn’t know where. But Imelda was sitting before him, and she demanded an answer. He had to obey.  

“Teasable.” She chuckled, hot air fluttering against his chin. He melted on the spot, fusing to the chair as the rest of the world faded into the background. Why couldn’t it just be the two of them, with no one else to worry about? No family, no obligations, no outside influences: just him, and her, and the table, and eternity?

“Héctor, you’re—” She shook her head. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, sending a bolt of energy straight down his spine. It settled into every nerve, raising hair he no longer had as his poor dead heart thumped in vain.  

“Never did.” He was waiting for her brothers, for the slamming door, for the universe to meddle with his affairs yet again. Nothing happened; that alone shocked him more than anything that was happening between them. He could hardly believe it. He might actually, just once, get the chance he’d been waiting a century for?

“Imelda.” She had to tell him. He had to know, he _needed_ to know that he wasn’t going to be overstepping any boundaries, any secret line she’d drawn without his knowledge. He needed to know that she wanted this, that she wanted him, that he didn’t have to worry about stopping himself; he didn’t think he could at this point, not unless she was strong enough to stop them both. “Imelda?”

“Yes….” He had no way of knowing if she understood what he was trying to ask, or if she was just answering him the only way she knew how. He could only go by the soft haze in her half-lidded eyes, the lack of recoil when his fingers found her chin. _Ay, dios…._ If he didn’t do something, and _now_ , he was going to implode.

_She’ll stop me_ , he tried to assure himself, saving what little self-control he still possessed for an emergency. _She’ll stop me, she’s got to._ He moved to cup her jaw, savoring the feeling of being able to do so again; it was a little harsher than he remembered, more angular, but what did that matter? It still fit perfectly into the cradle of his palm.

He tilted her face up, watching her lashes slide closed as she let out a shaky breath. There was warmth in her expression, and trust, and no sign of the hesitancy he was banking on. _Stop me, Imelda. I can’t stop myself._ There was a certain nobility in kissing her forehead, or her cheek, or maybe even the place where her adorable little nose used to be. Somewhere he might have kissed her if her mother was there; her family was just in the next room, after all. He ought to be the gentleman, the kindhearted, _proper_ man who saved his beloved from the threat of impropriety.

He didn’t want to be a gentleman.

_Stop me,_ he urged her. Lightly, carefully, his lips touched hers in the faintest caress, not even a proper kiss. _Stop me, Imelda._ She gasped against his mouth. _Please, stop me before I make a mistake._ Her lips barely parted as he brushed them in the gentlest kiss he could imagine, fingers trembling against her jaw hard enough to rattle. _Why aren’t you stopping me?_

“ _Mi amor_ ….”

_She called me amor!_ He wasn’t unable to think, to move, to understand; all he could do was _feel_. Feel the hand shyly exploring his ribs through the fabric of his vest, feel the mouth chastely moving against his own in a way so familiar it made his heart ache. She was savory and bitter all at once, _caldo de pollo_ and lipstick.

He broke away, panting slightly as lungs he didn’t have burned. His eyelids were too heavy to bother with opening, unable to do anything as her fingers found his necktie and tugged him back with a smothered mewl. Emotions flared to life within him at the contact, a need that tore its way up his throat to emerge in a barely muffled groan.

_Stop,_ he managed weakly, restraint trembling on already weakened foundations. _Her family, your family is in the other room and you’re kissing her like it was a back alley, not a dining room—_ he couldn’t stop, though, not when he wanted to find his way upstairs, to draw her into a secluded place, to run with her until he found somewhere they could be alone. He wanted, he wanted… he _wanted_.

_That’s it,_ he thought hazily, somewhere between deciding how to deepen a kiss with no tongue and plotting the best way to get her out of the chair and onto his lap as soon as possible. _That’s what it was, I remember now._ It was desire, hidden behind modesty, tangled up hand in hand with love. He wanted her.

The world could have ended, he could have been Forgotten, he could have woken up out of the best dream of his afterlife, he could have woken up at home, alive, in the warm comfort of his own bed. Any number of things could have happened to him while he sat there, but none of it would have mattered. All that mattered was that she kept kissing him.

That she didn’t stop.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: guess who’s back? back again?
> 
> Hey everyone! Happy Coco one-year anniversary! Trust me, I was not saving this chapter for the one year; then again, it’s amazing to me that I’ve been working on this chapter since the beginning of April. I really can’t believe it’s already Thanksgiving week... where did the year go? They say time flies when you’re having fun.... or doing work
> 
> Anyway, I hope this “little” chapter is enough of a prolonged apology for letting this story fall by the wayside for as long as I did. Trust me when I say that it was unintentional, and I don’t plan on it happening again. Please enjoy, and happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! 
> 
> **Chapter summary is a line from Joe Jackson's "Fools in Love"


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